THE YOUNG BUGLERS

By G.A. Henty

CONTENTS

PREFACE

THE YOUNG BUGLERS

CHAPTER I. — A COACHING ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER II. — TWO YOUNG PICKLES.

CHAPTER III. — ENLISTED.

CHAPTER IV. — A TOUGH CUSTOMER.

CHAPTER V. — OVERBOARD.

CHAPTER VI. — PORTUGAL.

CHAPTER VII. — THE PASSAGE OF THE DUORO—TALAVERA.

CHAPTER VIII. — A PAUSE IN OPERATIONS.

CHAPTER IX. — WITH THE GUERILLAS.

CHAPTER X. — MADRID.

CHAPTER XI. — THE FIGHT ON THE COA.

CHAPTER XII. — BUSACO AND TORRES VEDRAS.

CHAPTER XIII. — ALBUERA.

CHAPTER XIV. — INVALIDED HOME.

CHAPTER XV. — CIUDAD RODRIGO AND BADAJOS.

CHAPTER XVI. — SALAMANCA.

CHAPTER XVII. — CAUGHT IN A TRAP.

CHAPTER XVIII. — JUST IN TIME.

CHAPTER XIX. — VITTORIA.

CHAPTER XX. — TOULOUSE.

PREFACE

To my Young Readers.

I remember that, as a boy, I regarded any attempt to mix instruction with
amusement as being as objectionable a practice as the administration of
powder in jam; but I think that this feeling arose from the fact that in
those days books contained a very small share of amusement and a very
large share of instruction. I have endeavored to avoid this, and I hope
that the accounts of battles and sieges, illustrated as they are by maps,
will be found as interesting as the lighter parts of the story. As in my
tale, "The Young Franc-Tireurs," I gave the outline of the
Franco-German war, so I have now endeavored to give the salient features
of the great Peninsular struggle. The military facts, with the names of
generals and regiments, the dates and places, are all strictly accurate,
and any one who has read with care the story of "The Young Buglers" could
pass an examination as to the leading events of the Peninsular war.

Yours truly,

THE AUTHOR.

THE YOUNG BUGLERS

CHAPTER I. — A COACHING ADVENTURE.

Had any of the boys in the lower forms of Eton in the year 1808, been
asked who were the most popular boys of their own age, they would have
been almost sure to have answered, without the slightest hesitation, Tom
and Peter Scudamore, and yet it is probable that no two boys were more
often in disgrace. It was not that they were idle, upon the contrary, both
were fairly up in their respective forms, but they were constantly getting
into mischief of one sort or another; yet even with the masters they were
favorites, there was never anything low, disgraceful, or ungentlemanly in
their escapades, and they could be trusted never to attempt to screen
themselves from the consequences by prevarication, much less by lying. If
the masters heard that a party of youngsters had been seen far out of
bounds, they were pretty sure that the Scudamores were among them; a
farmer came in from a distance to complain that his favorite tree had been
stripped of its apples—for in those days apples were looked upon by
boys as fair objects of sport,—if the head-master's favorite white
poodle appeared dyed a deep blue, if Mr. Jones, the most unpopular master
in the school, upon coming out of his door trod upon a quantity of tallow
smeared all over the doorstep, and was laid up for a week in consequence,
there was generally a strong suspicion that Tom and Peter Scudamore were
concerned in the matter. One of their tricks actually came to the ears of
the Provost himself, and caused quite a sensation in the place, but in
this case, fortunately for them, they escaped undetected.

One fine summer afternoon they were out on the water with two or three
other boys of their own age, when a barge was seen ahead at some short
distance from the shore. She was apparently floating down with the stream,
and the fact that a horse was proceeding along the towing-path a little
way ahead was not noticed, as the rope was slack and was trailing under
water. The boys, therefore, as they were rowing against stream, steered
their boat to pass inside of her. Just as they came abreast of the horse a
man on the barge suddenly shouted to the rider of the horse to go on. He
did so, the rope tightened, rose from the water just under the bow of the
boat, and in another minute the boys were struggling in the water. All
were good swimmers, and would have cared little for the ducking had it
occurred accidentally, but the roars of laughter of the bargeman, and the
chaff with which he assailed them as they scrambled up the bank, showed
clearly enough that they had been upset maliciously. The boys were
furious, and one or two proposed that they should report the case, but Tom
Scudamore pointed out that the bargeman would of course declare that it
was a pure accident, and that the boys were themselves in fault in not
looking out whether the barge was being towed, before going inside her,
and so nothing would come of reporting.

The boat was dragged ashore and emptied, and in a few minutes they were
rowing back towards the town. The distance was but short, and they did not
repass the barge before they reached their boat-house. The brothers had
exchanged a few words in a low voice on the way, and instead of following
the example of the others, and starting at a run for the house where they
boarded to change their clothes, they walked down by the river and saw
that the barge had moored up against the bank, at a short distance below
the bridge. They watched for a time, and saw the bargeman fasten up the
hatch of the little cabin and go ashore.

That night two boys lowered themselves with a rope from the window of one
of the dames-houses, and walked rapidly down to the river. There were a
few flickering oil lamps burning, and the one or two old watchmen were
soundly asleep in their boxes. They did not meet a soul moving upon their
way to the object of the expedition, the barge that had run them down.
Very quietly they slipped on board, satisfied themselves by listening at
the half-open hatch to the snoring within that their enemy was there, then
loosened the moorings so that they could be thrown off at a moment's
notice.

"Now, Peter," the elder brother said, "open our lantern. The night is
quite still. You hold your hand behind it, so that the light will not fall
on our faces, and I will look whether he is only wrapped up in a blanket
or has a regular bed; we must not risk setting the place on fire. Get the
crackers ready."

A dark lantern was now taken out from under Tom's jacket, and was found to
be still alight, an important matter, for striking a light with flint and
steel was in those days a long and tedious business, and then opening it
Tom threw the light into the cabin. It was a tiny place, and upon a bench,
wrapped up in a blanket, the bargeman was lying. As the light fell on his
eyes, he moved, and a moment afterwards started up with an oath, and
demanded who was there.

No answer came in words, but half a dozen lighted crackers were thrown
into the cabin, when they began to explode with a tremendous uproar. In an
instant the hatch was shut down and fastened outside. The rope was cast
off, and in another minute she was floating down stream with the crackers
still exploding inside her, but with their noise almost deadened by the
tremendous outcry of shouts and howls, and by a continued and furious
banging at the hatch.

"There is no fear of his being choked, Tom, I hope?"

"No, I expect he's all right," Tom said, "it will be pretty stifling for a
bit no doubt, but there's a chimney hole and the smoke will find its way
out presently. The barge will drift down to the weir before it brings up,
there is not enough stream out for there to be any risk of her upsetting,
else we daren't have turned her adrift."

The next day the whole town was talking of the affair, and in the
afternoon the bargeman went up to the head-master and accused one of the
boys of an attempt to murder him.

Greatly surprised, the Provost demanded what reason the man had for
suspecting the boys, and the bargeman acknowledged that he had that
afternoon upset a boat with four or five boys in her. "They would not bear
you malice on that account," the Provost said; "they don't think much of a
swim such weather as this, unless indeed you did it on purpose."

The man hesitated in his answer, and the Provost continued, "You evidently
did do it on purpose, and in that case, although it was carried too far,
for I hear you had a very narrow escape of being stifled, still you
brought it upon yourself, and I hope it will be a lesson to you not to
risk the lives of Eton boys for your amusement. I know nothing about this
affair, but if you can point out the boys you suspect I will of course
inquire into it."

The bargeman departed, grumbling that he did not know one of the young
imps from another, but if he did find them, he'd wring their necks for
them to a certainty. The Provost had some inquiries made as to the boys
who had been upset, and whether they had all been in at lock-up time;
finding that they had all answered to their names, he made no further
investigation.

This affair had taken place in the summer before this story begins, on the
15th of October, 1808. On that day a holiday was granted in consequence of
the head-master's birthday, and the boys set off, some to football, some
for long walks in the country.

The Scudamores, with several of their friends, strolled down the
towing-path for some miles, and walked back by the road. As they entered
their dames-house on their return, Tom Scudamore said for the twentieth
time, "Well, I would give anything to be a soldier, instead of having to
go in and settle down as a banker—it's disgusting!"

As they entered a boy came up. "Oh, Scudamore, Jackson's been asking for
you both. It's something particular, for he has been out three or four
times, and he wanted to send after you, but no one knew where you had
gone."

The boys at once went into the master's study, where they remained all the
afternoon. A short time after they went in, Mr. Jackson came out and said
a word or two to one of the senior boys, and the word was quickly passed
round, that there was to be no row, for the Scudamores had just heard of
the sudden death of their father. That evening, Mr. Jackson had beds made
up for them in his study, so that they might not have the pain of having
to talk with the other boys. The housekeeper packed up their things, and
next morning early they started by the coach for London.

Mr. Scudamore, the father of the young Etonians, was a banker. He was the
elder of two brothers, and had inherited his father's business, while his
brother had gone into the army. The banker had married the daughter of a
landowner in the neighborhood, and had lived happily and prosperously
until her death, seven years before this story begins. She had borne him
three children, the two boys, now fifteen and fourteen years old
respectively, and a girl, Rhoda, two years younger than Peter. The loss of
his wife afflicted him greatly, and he received another shock five years
later by the death of his brother, Colonel Scudamore, to whom he was much
attached. From the time of his wife's death he had greatly relaxed in his
attention to his business, and after his brother's death he left the
management almost entirely in the hands of his cashier, in whom he had
unlimited confidence. This confidence was wholly misplaced. For years the
cashier had been carrying on speculation upon his own account with the
monies of the bank. Gradually and without exciting the least suspicion he
had realized the various securities held by the bank, and at last
gathering all the available cash he, one Saturday afternoon, locked up the
bank and fled.

On Monday it was found that he was missing; Mr. Scudamore went down to the
bank, and had the books taken into his parlor for examination. Some hours
afterwards a clerk went in and found his master lying back in his chair
insensible. A doctor on arriving pronounced it to be apoplexy. He never
rallied, and a few hours afterwards the news spread through the country
that Scudamore, the banker, was dead, and that the bank had stopped
payment.

People could believe the former item of news, but were incredulous as to
the latter. Scudamore's bank was looked upon in Lincolnshire as at least
as safe as the Bank of England itself. But the sad truth was soon clear to
all, and for awhile there was great distress of mind among the people, for
many miles round, for most of them had entrusted all their savings of
years to the Scudamores' bank. When affairs were wound up, however, it was
found that things were not quite so bad as had been feared. Mr. Scudamore
had a considerable capital employed in the bank, and the sale of his
handsome house and estate realized a large sum, so that eventually every
one received back the money they had entrusted to the bank; but the whole
of the capital and the profits of years of successful enterprise had
vanished, and it was calculated by the executors that the swindler must
have appropriated at least 80,000l.

For the first month after their father's death the boys stayed with the
doctor who had long attended the family and had treated all their ailments
since they were born. In the great loss of their father the loss of their
fortune affected them but little, except that they were sorry to be
obliged to leave Eton; for the interest of the little fortune which their
mother had brought at her marriage, and which was all that now remained to
them, would not have been sufficient to pay for their expenses there, and
indeed such an education would have been out of place for two boys who had
to make their own way in life. At the end of this month it was arranged
that they were to go to their only existing relative, an elder sister of
Mr. Scudamore. The boys had never seen her, for she had not for many years
been friends with her brother.

The letter which she had written to the doctor, announcing her willingness
to receive them, made the boys laugh, although it did not hold out
prospects of a very pleasant future. "I am, of course," she said,
"prepared to do my duty. No one can say that I have ever failed in my
duty. My poor brother quarreled with me. It was his duty to apologize. He
did not do so. Had it been my duty to apologize I should have done so. As
I was right, and he was wrong, it was clearly not my duty. I shall now do
my duty to my niece and nephews. Yet I may be allowed to say that I regret
much that they are not all nieces. I do not like boys. They are always
noisy, and not always clean. They do not wipe their shoes, they are always
breaking things, they go about with all sorts of rubbish and dirt in their
pockets, their hair is always rough, they are fond of worrying cats, and
other cruel games. Altogether they are objectionable. Had my brother made
up his mind to leave his children in my charge, it was clearly his duty to
have had girls instead of boys. However, it is not because other people
fail in their duty that I should fail in mine. Therefore, let them come to
me this day fortnight. By that time I shall have got some strong and
suitable furniture in the room that my nephews will occupy, and shall have
time to make other arrangements. This letter will, if all goes well, reach
you, I believe, in three days after the date of posting, and they will
take the same time coming here. Assure them that I am prepared to do my
duty, and that I hope that they will make a serious effort at doing
theirs. Ask my nephews, upon the occasion of their first arrival, to make
as little noise as they can, because my cat, Minnie, is very shy, and if
she is scared at the first meeting, she will take a very long time to get
accustomed to them. I also particularly beg that they do not, as they come
up to the house, throw stones at any of the pigeons who may be resting
upon the roof, for the slates were all set right a few weeks ago, and I am
sure I do not wish to have the slater here again; they were hanging about
for ten days the last time they came. I do not know that I have anything
else to say."

The boys received the reading of this singular epistle with shouts of
laughter.

"Poor aunt," Tom said. "What does she think of us that she can suppose
that, upon our very first arrival, we should come in like wild Indians,
throwing stones at her pigeons, and frightening her Minnie into fits. Did
you ever hear such an extraordinary idea, Doctor Jarvis?"

"At any rate, boys," the doctor said, when the laughter had ceased, "you
may find your aunt a little peculiar, but she is evidently determined to
do her duty to you, and you must do yours to her, and not play more pranks
than you can help. As to you, Rhoda, you will evidently be in high favor,
and as you are fortunately a quiet little lady, you will, I have no doubt,
get on with her very well."

"I hope so," Rhoda said, smiling, "you see she means to be kind, though
she does write funny letters, and, at any rate, there are Minnie and the
pigeons; it sounds nice, you know. Do you know what aunt's place is like,
Dr. Jarvis, and how to get there from here."

"No, my dear, I never was in that part of England. It is close to
Marlborough that she lives, a very pretty country, I believe. There is, of
course, no way to go across from here. You must go up to London by coach
from here, and then to Marlborough by the western coach. I will write to
my brother James in town, where you stopped at night as you came through,
boys, and I know that he will take you all in for the night, and see that
you go off right in the morning."

"You're very kind, indeed, Doctor Jarvis. I do not know how to thank you
for all you have done for us," Tom said earnestly, and the others
cordially echoed the sentiment.

The day before starting the doctor had a long talk with the boys. He
pointed out to them that their future now depended upon themselves alone.
They must expect to find many unpleasantnesses in their way, but they must
take their little trials pleasantly, and make the best of everything. "I
have no fear as to Rhoda," their kind friend said. "She has that happy,
amiable, and quiet disposition that is sure to adapt itself to all
circumstances. I have no doubt she will become a favorite with your aunt.
Try to keep out of scrapes, boys. You know you are rather fond of
mischief, and your aunt will not be able to understand it. If you get into
any serious difficulty write to me, you can rely upon always finding a
friend in me."

The journey to London was no novelty to the boys, but Rhoda enjoyed it
immensely. Her place had been taken inside, but most of the journey she
rode outside with her brothers. She was greatly amazed at the bustle and
noise of London, and was quite confused at the shouting and crowd at the
place where the coach drew up, for two or three other coaches had just
arrived from other directions. Mr. Jarvis had sent his man-servant to meet
them, their luggage was sent direct to the booking-office from which the
coach started for Marlborough, and the servant carried a small bag
containing their night things. It was evening when they got in, and Rhoda
could scarcely keep her eyes open long enough to have tea, for the coach
had been two days and nights upon the road. The next day they stayed in
town, and Mrs. Jarvis took them out to see the sights of London—the
Tower and St. Paul's, and Westminster Abbey, and the beasts at Exeter
Change. The boys had twice before spent a whole day in London, their
father having, upon two occasions, made his visits to town to fit in with
their going up to school, but to Rhoda it was all new, and very, very
wonderful.

The next day the coach started early for Marlborough. It was to take
rather over twenty-four hours on the way. As before, Rhoda rode outside
with her brothers until the evening, but then, instead of going inside,
where there were five passengers already, she said, as the night was so
fine and warm, she would rather remain with them. They were sitting behind
the coachman, there were two male passengers upon the same seat with them,
and another in the box seat by the coachman. The conversation turned, as
in those days it was pretty sure to turn, upon highwaymen. Several coaches
had been lately stopped by three highwaymen, who worked together, and were
reported to be more reckless than the generality of their sort. They had
shot a coachman who refused to stop, the week before on Hounslow Heath,
they had killed a guard on the great north road, and they had shot two
passengers who resisted, near Exeter.

Tom and Peter were greatly amused by observing that the passenger who sat
next to them, and who, at the commencement of the conversation, showed a
brace of heavy pistols with which he was provided, with much boasting as
to what he should do if the coach were attacked, when he heard of the fate
of the passengers who had resisted, became very quiet indeed, and
presently took an opportunity, when he thought that he was not observed,
of slipping his pistols under the tarpaulin behind him.

"I hope those dreadful men won't stop our coach," Rhoda said.

"They won't hurt you if they do, Rhoda," Tom said assuringly. "I think it
would be rather a lark. I say, Peter," he went on in a whisper, "I think
we might astonish them with those pistols that coward next to you has hid
behind him."

"I should just think so," Peter said; "the bargee at Eton would be nothing
to it."

The hours went slowly on. Rhoda and the boys dozed uncomfortably against
each other and the baggage behind them, until they were suddenly roused by
a shout in the road beside them: "Stand for your lives!"

The moon was up, and they could see that there were three horsemen. One
galloped to the horses' heads, and seized the rein of one of the leaders,
the others rode by the coach.

The first answer to the challenge was a discharge from the blunderbuss of
the guard, which brought one of the highwaymen from his horse.

The other, riding up to the side of the coach, fired at the guard, and a
loud cry told that the shot had taken effect. In another moment the fellow
was by the side of the coachman.

"Hold up!" he said, "or I will blow your brains out!"

The coachman did as he was ordered, and indeed the man at the leader's
head had almost succeeded in stopping them. The passenger next to the boys
had, at the first challenge, again seized his pistols, and the boys
thought that he was going to fire after all.

"Lie down at our feet, Rhoda, quick!" Tom said, "and don't move till I
tell you." The fate of the guard evidently frightened away the short-lived
courage of the passenger, for, as the coachman again pulled up, he hastily
thrust the pistols in behind him.

"Get down, every one of you," the highwayman shouted.

"Lie still, Rhoda," Tom whispered. "Now, Peter, get in underneath the
tarpaulin."

This was done as the passengers descended. The luggage was not so heavily
piled as usual, and the boys found plenty of room beneath the tarpaulin.

"Now, Peter, you take one of these pistols and give me the other. Now peep
out. The moon is hidden, which is a good thing; now, look here, you shall
shoot that fellow standing down below, who is swearing at the ladies
inside for not getting out quicker. I'll take a shot at that fellow
standing in front of the horse's heads."

"Do you think you can hit him, Tom?"

"I have not the least idea, but I can try; and if you hit the other one,
the chances are he'll bolt, whether I hit him or not. Open the tarpaulin
at the side so as to see well, and rest the pistol upon something. You
must take a good shot, Peter, for if you miss him we shall be in a mess."

"All right," Peter said, in a whisper, "I can almost touch him with the
pistol."

In loud and brutal tones the highwayman now began to order the frightened
ladies to give up their watches and rings, enforcing his commands with
terrible curses. When suddenly a pistol flashed out just behind him, and
he fell off his horse with a ball through his shoulder.

Tom's shot, though equally well intended, was not so truly aimed. The
highwayman had dismounted, and was standing just in front of the leaders,
so that Tom had a fair view of him between them. The boys had both
occasionally fired their father's pistols, for, in those days, each
householder in the country always kept loaded pistols in his room, but his
skill was not sufficient to make sure of a man at that distance. The
bullet flew past at two feet to the left of his head. But its effect was
scarcely less startling than if it had actually hit him, for, in its
passage, it passed through the ear of the off leader. The horse made a
start at the sudden pain, and then dashed forward. The rest of the team,
already alarmed by the shot, followed her lead; before the startled
highwayman could get out of the way they were upon him, in another instant
he was under their heels, and the coach gave a sudden lurch as it passed
over his body.

"Lie still, Rhoda, a little longer; it's all right, but the horses have
run away," Tom exclaimed, as he scrambled forward, and caught hold of the
reins, which the coachman had tied to the rail of the seat as he got down.
"Catch hold of the reins, Peter, and help me pull."

Peter did so; but the united strength of the boys was wholly unequal to
arresting the headlong flight of the horses.

Fortunately the highwaymen had chosen a low bottom between two hills, to
arrest the coach, consequently the road was up a hill of moderate
steepness. The boys hoped that the horses would stop when they got to the
top; but they went on with redoubled speed.

"This is something like going it," Peter said.

"Isn't it, Peter? They know their way, and we ain't lively to meet
anything in the road. They will stop at their stable. At any rate, it's no
use trying to steer them. Here, Rhoda dear, get up; are you very much
frightened?"

Rhoda still lay quite still, and Peter, holding on with difficulty, for
the coach quite rocked with the speed at which they were going, climbed
over to her, and stooped, down. "Shall I help you up, Rhoda?"

"No, please, I would rather stop here till it's all over."

Fortunately the hill, up to the Tillage where they made the change, was a
steep one, and the horses broke into a trot before they reached the top,
and, in another minute drew up at the door of the inn. The astonishment of
the ostlers at seeing the horses covered with lather, and coachbox
tenanted only by two boys, behind whom a little white face now peered out,
was extreme, and they were unable to get beyond an ejaculation of hallo!
expressive of a depth of incredulous astonishment impossible to be
rendered by words.

"Look here," Tom said, with all the composure, and much of the impudence,
which then, as now, characterized the young Etonian, "don't be staring
like a pack of stuck pigs. You had better get the fresh horses in, and
drive back to the bottom, about four miles from here. There has been
regular row with some fellows, and I expect two or three are killed. Now,
just put up the ladder; I want to get my sister down."

Almost mechanically the men put the ladder up to the coach, and the boys
and Rhoda got down.

"Do you say the coach has been attacked by highwaymen in Burnet bottom?"

"I don't know anything about Burnet bottom," Tom said. "It was a bottom
about four miles off. There were three of them. The guard shot one of
them, and the others shot the guard. Then we were stopped by them, and
every one had to get down. Then the horses ran away, and here we are."

"Then there are two of those highwayman chaps with the passengers," one of
the men said.

"You need not be afraid of them," Tom said carelessly; "one got shot, and
I don't know about the other, but the wheel of the coach went over him, so
I do not suppose he will be much trouble. Now, if I were you, I should not
stand staring any more, but should make haste and take the coach back."

"Hullo, look at this grey," one of the men exclaimed, as, at last
understanding what had taken place, they began to bustle about to change
horses. "He's got blood all over the side of his head. One of those
scoundrels has shot him through the ear."

Tom burst out laughing. "I am the scoundrel!" he said. "Peter, that
explains why we went off so suddenly. I missed the fellow, and hit the
leader in the ear. However, it comes to the same thing. By the way, we may
as well take the pistols."

So saying, he ran up the ladder and brought down the pistols. By this time
the fresh horses were in.

"I can't make nought of it," one of the ostlers said, climbing up into the
coachman's seat. "Jump up, Bill and Harry. It's the rummiest go I ever
heard of in coaching."

"Landlady, can you get us some tea at once, please," Tom said, going up to
the landlady, who was looking on from the door of the house with an
astonishment equal to that of the men at the whole affair; "as quickly as
you can, for my sister looks regularly done up with fatigue, and then,
please let her lie down till the coach is ready to start again. It will be
three quarters of an hour before it is back, and then, I daresay, there
will be a lot of talking before they go on. I should think they will be
wanting breakfast. At any rate, an hour's rest will do you good, Rhoda."

Rhoda was too worn out with the over-excitement even to answer.
Fortunately there was hot water in order to make hot grog for the
outriders of the coach, some tea was quickly made, and in ten minutes
Rhoda was fast asleep on the landlady's bed.

Tom and Peter expressed their desire for something substantial in the way
of eating, for the morning had now fairly broken. The landlady brought in
some cold meat, upon which the boys made a vigorous attack, and then,
taking possession of two benches, they dozed off until the coach arrived.

It had but three horses, for one had been sent off to carry Bill, the
ostler, at full speed to the town at which they had last changed horses,
to fetch a doctor and the constable. The other two men had remained with
the guard, who was shot in the hip, and the highwayman, whose collar-bone
was broken by Peter's shot. The fellow shot by the guard, and the other
one, whom the coach wheels had passed over, were both dead.

"There's the coach, Tom."

"What a nuisance, Peter, they'll all be wanting to talk now, and I am just
so comfortably off. Well, I suppose it's no use trying to get any more
sleep."

So saying, they roused themselves, and went out to the door just as the
coach drew up.

There was a general shout of greeting from the passengers, which was
stopped, however, by a peremptory order from the coachman.

He was a large, stout man, with a face red from the effects of wind and
exposure. "Jack," he said, to a man who was standing near, for the news of
the attack upon the coach had quickly spread, and all the villagers were
astir to see it come in. "Jack, hold the leader's head. Thomas, open the
door, and let the insides out. Gents," he said solemnly, when this was
done, "I'm going to do what isn't a usual thing by no means, in fact, I
ain't no precedence for doing it; but then, I do not know any precedence
for this here business altogether. I never did hear of a coachman standing
up on his box to give a cheer, no, not to King George himself; but, then,
King George never polished off two highwaymen all to himself, leastway,
not as I've heard tell of. Now, these two young gents have done this. They
have saved my coach and my passengers from getting robbed, and so I'm
going to give 'em three cheers. I'll trouble you to help me up into the
box seat, gentlemen."

Assisted by the other passengers, the driver now gravely climbed up into
the box seat, steadied himself there by placing one hand upon the shoulder
of the passenger next him, took off his low-crowned hat, and said. "Follow
me, gents, with three cheers for those young gents standing there; better
plucked ones I never came across, and I've traveled a good many miles in
my day."

So saying, he gave three stentorian cheers, which were echoed by all the
passengers and villagers.

Then there was a momentary silence, and Tom, who, with his brother, had
been feeling very uncomfortable, although rather inclined to laugh, seeing
that he was expected to say something, said, "Thank you all very much; but
we'd much rather you hadn't done it."

Then there was a general laugh and movement, and a general pressing
forward of the passengers to shake the boys by the hand. The driver was
assisted down from his elevated position, and got off the coach and came
up to them. "That's the first speech I ever made, young gentlemen, and, if
I know myself, it will be the last; but, you see, I was druv to it. You're
a good sort, that's certain. What will you drink?"

The boys declared for beer, and drank solemnly with the driver, imitating
him in finishing their mugs at a draught, and turning them topsy-turvy.
There was now a great deal of talking, and many questions were asked. Tom
and Peter modestly said that there was really nothing to tell. They saw
that the gentleman next to them intended to use his pistols; but, not
seeing a good opportunity, put them down behind the tarpaulin, and the
thought occurred to them that, by slipping behind it, they would get a
good chance of a certain shot. Accordingly, they had fired, and then the
horse had run away; and there was an end of it. There was nothing
extraordinary in the whole matter.

"At any rate, my boys, you have saved me from a loss of a couple of
hundred pounds which I had got hid in my boots, but which those fellows
would have been sure to have have discovered," one of the passengers said.

There was a general chorus of satisfaction at many watches and trinkets
saved, and then the first passenger went on,—

"I propose, gentlemen and ladies, that when we get to the end of our
journey we make a subscription, according to the amount we have saved, and
that we get each of these young gentlemen a brace of the very best pistols
that can be bought. If they go on as they have begun, they will find them
useful."

There was a general exclamation of approval, and one of the ladies, who
had been an inside passenger, said, "And I think we ought to give a
handsome ring to their sister as a memorial through life. Of course, she
had not so much to do as her brothers, but she had the courage to keep
still, and she had to run the risk, both of being shot, and of being upset
by the coach just as they did."

This also was unanimously approved, and, after doing full justice to the
breakfast set before them, the party again took their places. Rhoda being
carried down asleep, by the landlady, and placed in the coach, one of the
inside passengers getting out to make room for her, and she was laid,
curled up, on the seat, with her head in a lady's lap, and slept quietly,
until, to her astonishment, she was woke up, and told that she was in
Marlborough.

CHAPTER II. — TWO YOUNG PICKLES.

An old-fashioned open carriage, drawn by a stiff, old-fashioned horse, and
driven by a stiff, old-fashioned man, was in waiting at the inn at which
the coach drew up at Marlborough. Into this the young Scudamores were soon
transferred, and, after a hearty good-bye from their fellow-passengers,
and an impressive one from the coachman, they started upon the concluding
part of their journey.

"How far is it to aunt's?" Tom asked.

"About six miles, young sir," the driver said gravely.

The young Scudamores had great difficulty to restrain their laughter at
Tom's new title; in fact, Peter nearly choked himself in his desperate
efforts to do so, and no further questions were asked for some time.

The ride was a pleasant one, and Rhoda, who had never been out of
Lincolnshire before, was delighted with the beautiful country through
which they were passing. The journey, long as it was—for the road
was a very bad one, and the horse had no idea of going beyond a slow trot—passed
quickly to them all; but they were glad when the driver pointed to a
quaint old-fashioned house standing back from the road, and said that they
were home.

"There are the pigeons, Rhoda, and there is Minnie asleep on that open
window-sill."

Very many times had the young Scudamores talked about their aunt, and had
pictured to themselves what she would be like; and their ideas of her so
nearly approached the truth, that she almost seemed to be an old
acquaintance as she came to the door as the carriage stopped. She was a
tall, upright, elderly lady, with a kind, but very decided face, and a
certain prim look about her manner and dress.

"Well, niece Rhoda and nephews, I am glad to see that you have arrived
safely," she said in a clear, distinct voice. "Welcome to the Yews. I hope
that we shall get on very well together. Joseph, I hope that you have not
driven Daisy too fast, and that you did not allow my nephews to use the
whip. You know I gave you very distinct instructions not to let them do
so."

"No, my lady, they never so much as asked."

"That is right," Miss Scudamore said, turning round and shaking hands with
the boys, who had now got out of the carriage and had helped Rhoda down.
"I am glad to hear what Joseph tells me, for I know that boys are
generally fond of furious driving and like lashing horses until they put
them into a gallop. And now, how are you, niece Rhoda! Give me a kiss.
That is right. You look pale and tired, child; you must have something to
eat, and then go to bed. Girls can't stand racketing about as boys can.
You look quiet and nice, child, and I have no doubt we shall suit very
well. It is very creditable to you that you have not been spoilt by your
brothers. Boys generally make their sisters almost as noisy and rude as
they are themselves."

"I don't think we are noisy and rude, aunt," Tom said, with a smile.

"Oh, you don't, nephew?" Miss Scudamore said, looking at him sharply, and
then shaking her head decidedly two or three times. "If your looks do not
belie you both sadly, you are about as hair-brained a couple of lads as my
worst enemies could wish to see sent to plague me; but," she added to
herself, as she turned to lead the way indoors, "I must do my duty, and
must make allowances; boys will be boys, boys will be boys, so they say at
least, though why they should be is more than I can make out. Now, Rhoda,
I will take you up with me. Your bedroom leads out of mine, dear. Hester,"
she said to a prim-looking servant who had come out after her to the door;
"will you show my nephews to their room? Dinner will be ready at two; it
is just a quarter to the hour now. I see that you have got watches, so
that you will be able to be punctual; and I must request you, when you
have done washing, not to throw the water out of the window, because my
flower-beds are underneath."

Tom had great difficulty in keeping his countenance, while he assured his
aunt that his brother and himself never did empty their basins out of the
window.

"That is right," Miss Scudamore said doubtfully; "but I have heard that
boys do such things."

Once fairly in their room and the door shut, the boys had a great laugh
over their aunt's ideas as to boys.

"There is one comfort," Tom said at last; "whatever we do we shall never
surprise her."

"I think we shall get on very well with her," Peter said. "She means to be
kind, I am sure. This is a jolly room, Tom."

It was a low wainscoted room, with a very wide window divided into three
by mullions, and fitted with latticed panes. They were open, and a
delicious scent of flowers came in from the garden. The furniture was all
new and very strong, of dark stained wood, which harmonized well with the
paneling. There were no window curtains, but a valance of white dimity
hung above the window. There was a piece of carpet between the beds; the
rest of the floor was bare, but the boards were of old oak, and looked as
well without it. Several rows of pegs had been put upon the walls, and
there was a small chest of drawers by each bed.

"This is very jolly, Peter; but it is a pity that there are bars to the
window."

When they came down to dinner they found that Rhoda, quite done up with
her journey, had gone to bed.

"You like your room, I hope, nephews," Miss Scudamore said, after they had
taken their seats.

"Yes, aunt, very much. There is only one drawback to it."

"What is that, Thomas?"

"Oh, please, aunt, don't call me Thomas; it is a dreadful name; it is
almost as bad as Tommy. Please call me Tom. I am always called Tom by
every one."

"I am not fond of these nicknames," Miss Scudamore said. "There is a
flippancy about them of which I do not approve."

"Yes, aunt, in nicknames; but Tom is not a nickname; it is only a short
way of speaking. We never hear of a man being called Thomas, unless he is
a footman or an archbishop, or something of that sort."

"What do you mean by archbishop?" Miss Scudamore asked severely.

"Well, aunt, I was going to say footman, and then I thought of Thomas à
Becket; and there was Thomas the Rhymer. I have heard of him, but I never
read any of his rhymes. I wonder why they did not call them poems. But I
expect even Thomas à Becket was called Tom in his own family."

Miss Scudamore looked sharply at Tom, but he had a perfect command of his
face, and could talk the greatest nonsense with the most serious face. He
went on unmoved with her scrutiny.

"I have often wondered why I was not christened Tom, It would have been
much more sensible. For instance, Rhoda is christened Rhoda and not
Rhododendron."

"Rhododendron?" Miss Scudamore said, mystified.

"Yes, aunt, it is an American plant, I believe. We had one in the
green-house at home; it was sent poor papa by some friend who went out
there, I don't see anything else Rhoda could come from."

"You are speaking very ignorantly, nephew," Miss Scudamore said severely.
"I don't know anything about the plant you speak of, but the name of Rhoda
existed before America was ever heard of. It is a very old name."

"I expect," Peter said, "it must have meant originally a woman of Rhodes.
You see Crusaders and Templars were always having to do with Rhodes, and
they no doubt brought the name home, and so it got settled here."

"The name is mentioned in Scripture," Miss Scudamore said severely.

"Yes, aunt, and that makes it still more likely that it meant a woman of
Rhodes; you see Rhodes was a great place then."

Miss Scudamore was silent for some time. Then she went back to the subject
with which the conversation had commenced. "What is the objection you
spoke of to the room?"

"Oh! it is the bars to the window, aunt."

"I have just had them put up," Miss Scudamore said calmly.

"Just put up, aunt!" Tom repeated in surprise, "what for?"

"To prevent you getting out at night."

The boys could not help laughing this time, and then Peter said, "But why
should we want to get out at night, aunt?"

"Why should boys always want to do the things they ought not?" Miss
Scudamore said. "I've heard of boys being let down by ropes to go and buy
things. I dare say you have both done it yourselves."

"Well, aunt," Tom said, "perhaps we have; but then, you see, that was at
school."

"I do not see any difference, nephew. If you will get out at one window,
you will get out at another. There is mischief to be done in the country
as well as in towns; and so long as there is mischief to do, so long will
boys go out of their way to do it. And now I will tell you the rules of
this house, to which you will be expected to adhere. It is well to
understand things at once, as it prevents mistakes. We breakfast at eight,
dine at two, have tea at half-past six, and you will go to bed at
half-past eight. These hours will be strictly observed. I shall expect
your hands and faces to be washed, and your hairs brushed previous to each
meal. When you come indoors you will always take off your boots and put on
your shoes in the little room behind this. And now, if you have done
dinner I think that you had better go and lie down on your bed, and get
two or three hours' sleep. Take your boots off before you get into the
bed."

"She means well, Peter," the elder brother said, as they went upstairs,
"but I am afraid she will fidget our lives out."

For two or three days the boys wandered about enjoying the beautiful
walks, and surprising and pleasing their aunt by the punctuality with
which they were in to their meals. Then she told them that she had
arranged for them to go to a tutor, who lived at Warley, a large village a
mile distant, and who had some eight or ten pupils. The very first day's
experience at the school disgusted them. The boys were of an entirely
different class to those with whom they had hitherto associated, and the
master was violent and passionate.

"How do you like Mr. Jones, nephews?" Miss Scudamore asked upon their
return after their first day at school.

"We do not like him at all, aunt. In the first place, he is a good deal
too handy with that cane of his."

"'He who spares the rod—'"

"Yes, we know that, aunt, 'spoils the child,'" broke in Tom, "but we would
not mind so much if the fellow were a gentleman."

"I don't know what you may call a gentleman," Miss Scudamore said
severely. "He stands very high here a schoolmaster, while he visits the
vicar, and is well looked up to everywhere."

"He's not a gentleman for all that," Tom muttered; "he wouldn't be if he
visited the Queen. One does not mind being trashed by a gentleman; one is
used to that at Eton; but to be knocked about by a fellow like that! Well,
we shall see."

For a week the boys put up with the cruelty of their tutor, who at once
took an immense dislike to them on finding that they did not, like the
other boys, cringe before him, and that no trashing could extract a cry
from them.

It must not be supposed that they did not meditate vengeance, but they
could hit upon no plan which could be carried out without causing
suspicion that it was the act of one of the boys; and in that case they
knew that he would question them all round, and they would not tell a lie
to screen themselves.

Twice they appealed to their aunt, but she would not listen to them,
saying that the other boys did not complain, and that if their master was
more severe with them than with others, it could only be because they
behaved worse. It was too evident that they were boys of very violent
dispositions, and although she was sorry that their master found it
necessary to punish them, it was clearly her duty not to interfere.

The remark about violence arose from Miss Scudamore having read in the
little paper which was published once a week at Marlborough an account of
the incident of the stopping of the coach, about which the boys had agreed
to say nothing to her. The paper had described the conduct of her nephews
in the highest terms, but Miss Scudamore was terribly shocked. "The idea",
she said, "that she should have to associate with boys who had take a
fellow-creature's life was terrible to her, and their conduct in
resisting, when grown-up men had given up the idea as hopeless, showed a
violent spirit, which, in boys so young, was shocking."

A few days after this, as the boys were coming from school, they passed
the carrier's cart, coming in from Marlborough.

"Be you the young gentlemen at Miss Scudamore's?" the man asked. "Because,
if you be, I have got a parcel for you."

Tom answered him that they were, and he then handed them over a heavy
square parcel. Opening it after the cart had gone on, the boys, to their
great delight, found that it consisted of two cases, each containing a
brace of very handsome pistols.

"This is luck, Peter," Tom said. "If the parcel had been sent to the
house, aunt would never have let us have them; now we can take them in
quietly, get some powder and balls, and practice shooting every day in
some quiet place. That will be capital. Do you know I have thought of a
plan which will enrage old Jones horribly, and he will never suspect us?"

"No; have you, Tom? What is that?"

"Look here, Peter. I can carry you easily standing on my shoulders. If you
get a very long cloak, so as to fall well down on me, no one would suspect
in the dark that there were two of us; we should look like one
tremendously tall man. Well, you know, he goes every evening to
Dunstable's to sing with Miss Dunstable. They say he's making love to her.
We can waylay him in the narrow lane, and make him give up that new watch
he has just bought, that he's so proud of. I heard him say he had given
thirty guineas for it. Of course, we don't want to keep it, but we would
smash it up between a couple of big stones, and send him all the pieces."

"Capital, Tom; but where should we get the cloak?"

"There is that long wadded silk cloak of aunt's that she uses when she
goes out driving. It always hangs up in the closet in the hall."

"But how are we to get in again, Tom? I expect that he does not come back
till half-past nine or ten. We can slip out easily enough after we are
supposed to have gone to bed; but how are we to get back?"

"The only plan, Peter, is to get in through Rhoda's window. She is very
angry at that brute Jones treating us so badly, and if I take her into the
secret I feel sure she will agree."

Rhoda was appealed to, and although at first she said it was quite, quite
impossible, she finally agreed, although with much fear and trembling, to
assist them. First, the boys were to buy some rope and make a rope ladder,
which Rhoda was to take up to her room; she was to open the window wide
when she went to bed, but to pull the blind down as usual, so that if her
aunt came in she would not notice it. Then, when she heard her aunt come
tip to bed at half-past nine, she was to get up very quietly, drop the
rope ladder out, fastening it as they instructed her, and then get into
bed again, and go to sleep if she could, as the boys would not try to come
in until after Miss Scudamore was asleep.

Two nights after this the schoolmaster was returning from his usual visit
to Mr. Dunstable, when, to his horror, he saw a gigantic figure advance
from under a tree which overshadowed the lawn, and heard a deep voice say,
"Your money or your life!"

Like all bullies, the schoolmaster was a coward, and no sooner did he see
this terrible figure, and his ears caught the ominous click of a pistol
which accompanied the words, than his teeth chattered, his whole figure
trembled with fear, and he fell on his knees, crying, "Spare my life!—take
all that I have, but spare my life!"

"You miserable coward!" the giant said, "I do not want to take your
wretched life. What money have you?"

"I have only two shillings," he exclaimed; "I swear to you that I have
only two shillings."

"What is the use of two shillings to me?—give them to the first
beggar you see."

"Yes, sir," the schoolmaster said; "I swear to you that I will."

"Give me your watch."

The schoolmaster took out his watch, and, getting upon his feet, handed it
to the giant.

"There now, you can go; but see," he added, as the schoolmaster turned
with great alacrity to leave—"look here."

"Yes, sir."

"Look here, and mark my words well. Don't you go to that house where you
have been to-night, or it will be the worse for you. You are a wretch, and
I won't see that poor little girl marry you and be made miserable. Swear
to me you will give her up."

The schoolmaster hesitated, but there was again the ominous click of the
pistol.

"Yes, yes, I swear it," he said hastily. "I will give her up altogether."

"You had better keep your oath," the giant said, "for if you break it, if
I hear you go there any more—I shall be sure to hear of it—I
will put an ounce of lead in you, if I have to do it in the middle of your
school. Do you hear me? Now you may go."

Only too glad to escape, the schoolmaster walked quickly off, and in a
moment his steps could be heard as he ran at the top of his speed down the
lane.

In a moment the giant appeared to break in two, and two small figures
stood where the large one had been.

"Capital, Peter. Now, I'll take the cloak, and you keep the pistol, and
now for a run home—not that I'm afraid of that coward getting up a
pursuit. He'll be only too glad to get his head under the bedclothes."

Rhoda had carried out her brother's instructions with great exactness, and
was in a great fright when her aunt came in to see her in bed, lest she
should notice that the window was open. However, the night was a quiet
one, and the curtains fell partly across the blind, so that Miss Scudamore
suspected nothing, but Rhoda felt great relief when she said good-night,
took the candle, and left the room. She had had hard work to keep herself
awake until she heard her aunt come up to bed; and then, finding that she
did not again come into the room, she got up, fastened one end of the rope
ladder to a thick stick long enough to cross two of the mullions, let the
other end down very quietly, and then slipped into bed again. She did not
awake until Hester knocked at her door and told her it was time to get up.
She awoke with a great start, and in a, fright at once ran to the window.
Everything looked as usual. The rope ladder was gone, the window was
closed, and Rhoda knew that her brothers must have come in safely.

Great was the excitement in Warley next day, when it became known that the
schoolmaster had been robbed of his watch by a giant fully eight feet
high. This height of the robber was, indeed, received with much doubt, as
people thought that he might have been a tall man, but that the eight feet
must have been exaggerated by the fear of the schoolmaster.

Two or three days afterwards the surprise rose even higher, when a party
of friends who had assembled at Mr. Jones' to condole with him upon his
misfortune, were startled by the smashing of one of the windows by a small
packet, which fell upon the floor in their midst.

There was a rush to the door, but the night was a dark one, and no one was
to be seen; then they returned to the sitting-room, and the little packet
was opened, and found to contain some watchworks bent and broken, some
pulverized glass, and a battered piece of metal, which, after some
trouble, the schoolmaster recognized as the case of his watch. The
head-constable was sent for, and after examining the relics of the case,
he came to the same conclusion at which the rest had already arrived,
namely, that the watch could not have been stolen by an ordinary footpad,
but by some personal enemy of the schoolmaster's, whose object was not
plunder, but annoyance and injury.

To the population of Warley this solution was a very agreeable one. The
fact of a gigantic footpad being in the neighborhood was alarming for all,
and nervous people were already having great bolts and bars placed upon
their shutters and doors. The discovery, therefore, that the object of
this giant was not plunder, but only to gratify a spite against the
master, was a relief to the whole place. Every one was, of course, anxious
to know who this secret foe could be, and what crime Mr. Jones could have
committed to bring such a tremendous enemy upon him. The boys at the
school assumed a fresh importance in the eyes of the whole place, and
being encouraged now to tell all they knew of him, they gave such a
picture of the life that they had led at school, that a general feeling of
disgust was aroused against him.

The parents of one or two of the boys gave notice to take their sons away,
but the rest of the boys were boarders, and were no better off than
before.

Miss Scudamore was unshaken in her faith in Mr. Jones and considered the
rumor current about him to be due simply to the vindictive nature of boys.

"Well, aunt," Tom said one day, after a lecture of this sort from her, "I
know you mean to be kind to us, but Peter and I have stood it on that
account, but we can't stand it much longer, and we shall run away before
long."

"And where would you run to, nephew?" Miss Scudamore said calmly.

"That is our affair," Tom said quite as coolly, "only I don't like to do
it without giving you warning. You mean kindly, I know, aunt, but the way
you are always going on at us from morning to night whenever we are at
home, and the way in which you allow us to be treated by that tyrannical
brute, is too much altogether."

Miss Scudamore looked steadily at them.

"I am doing, nephew, what I consider to be for your good. You are willful,
and violent, and headstrong. It is my duty to cure you, and although it is
all very painful to me, at my time of life, to have such a charge thrust
upon me, still, whatever it costs, it must be done."

For the next month Mr. Jones' life was rendered a burden to him. The
chimney-pots were shut up with sods placed on them, and the fireplaces
poured volumes of smoke into the rooms and nearly choked him. Night after
night the windows of his bedroom were smashed; cats were let down the
chimney; his water-butts were found filled with mud, and the cord of the
bucket of his well was cut time after time; the flowers in his garden were
dug up and put in topsy-turvy. He himself could not stir out after dark
without being tripped up by strings fastened a few inches above the path;
and once, coming out of his door, a string fastened from scraper to
scraper brought him down the steps with such violence that the bridge of
his nose, which came on the edge of a step, was broken, and he was
confined to his bed for three or four days. In vain he tried every means
to discover and punish the authors of these provocations. A savage dog,
the terror of the neighborhood, was borrowed and chained up in the garden,
but was found poisoned next morning.

Watchmen were hired, but refused to stay for more than one night, for they
were so harassed and wearied out that they came to the conclusion that
they were haunted. If they were on one side of the house a voice would be
heard on the other. After the first few attempts, they no longer dared
venture to run, for between each round strings were tied in every
direction, and they had several heavy falls, while as they were carefully
picking their way with their lanterns, stones struck them from all
quarters. If one ventured for a moment from the other's side his lantern
was knocked out, and his feet were struck from under him with a sharp and
unexpected blow from a heavy cudgel; and they were once appalled by seeing
a gigantic figure stalk across the grass, and vanish in a little bush.

At the commencement of these trials the schoolmaster had questioned the
boys, one by one, if they had any hand in the proceeding.

All denied it. When it came to Tom Scudamore's turn, he said. "You never
do believe me, Mr. Jones, so it is of no use my saying that I didn't do
it; but if you ask Miss Scudamore, she will bear witness that we were in
bed hours before, and that there are bars on our windows through which a
cat could hardly get."

The boys had never used Rhoda's room after the first night's expedition,
making their escape now by waiting until the house was quiet, and then
slipping along the passage to the spare room, and thence by the window,
returning in the same way.

Under this continued worry, annoyance, and alarm, the schoolmaster grew
thin and worn, his school fell off more and more; for many of the boys,
whose rest was disturbed by all this racket, encouraged by the example of
the boys of the place who had already been taken away, wrote privately to
their friends.

The result was that the parents of two or three more wrote to say that
their boys would not return after the holidays, and no one was surprised
when it became known that Mr. Jones was about to close his school and
leave the neighborhood.

The excitement of the pranks that they had been playing had enabled the
boys to support the almost perpetual scoldings and complaints of their
aunt; but school once over, and their enemy driven from the place, they
made up their minds that they could no longer stand it.

One day, therefore, when Rhoda had, as an extraordinary concession, been
allowed to go for a walk with them, they told her that they intended to
run away.

Poor Rhoda was greatly distressed.

"You see, Rhoda dear," Tom said, "although we don't like leaving you, you
will really be happier when we are gone. It is a perpetual worry to you to
hear aunt going on, on, on—nagging, nagging, nagging for ever and
ever at us. She is fond of you and kind to you, and you would get on
quietly enough without us, while now she is in a fidget whenever you are
with us, and is constantly at you not to learn mischief and bad ways from
us. Besides you are always in a fright now, lest we should get into some
awful scrape, as I expect we should if we stopped here. If it weren't for
you, we should not let her off as easily as we do. No, no, Rhoda, it is
better for us all that we should go."

Poor Rhoda, though she cried bitterly at the thought of losing her
brothers, yet could not but allow to herself that in many respects she
should be more happy when she was freed from anxiety, lest they should get
into some scrape, and when her aunt would not be kept in a state of
continued irritation and scolding. She felt too that, although she herself
could get on well enough in her changed life, that it was very hard indeed
for the boys, accustomed as they had been to the jolly and independent
life of a public school, and to be their own master during the holidays,
with their ponies, amusements, and their freedom to come and go when they
chose. Rhoda was a thoughtful child, and felt that nothing that they could
go through could do them more harm or make them more unhappy than they now
were. She had thought it all over day after day, for she was sure that the
boys would, sooner or later come to it, and she had convinced herself that
it was better for them. Still it was with a very sad heart that she found
that the time had come.

For some time she cried in silence, and then, drying her eyes, she said,
trying to speak bravely, though her lips quivered.

"I shall miss you dreadfully, boys; but I will not say a word to keep you
here, for I am sure it is very, very bad for you. What do you mean to do?
Do you mean to go to sea?"

"No, Rhoda; you see uncle was in the army, and used to talk to us about
that; and, as we have never seen the sea, we don't care for it as some
boys do. No, we shall try and go as soldiers."

"But my dear Tom, they will never take you as soldiers; you are too
little."

"Yes, we are not old enough to enlist at present," Tom said; "but we might
go in as buglers. We have thought it all over, and have been paying old
Wetherley, who was once in the band of a regiment, to teach us the bugle,
and he says we can sound all the calls now as well as any bugler going. We
did not like to tell you till we had made up our minds to go; but we have
gone regularly to him every day since the first week we came here."

"Then you won't have to fight, Tom," Rhoda said joyfully.

"No," Tom said, in a rather dejected tone; "I am afraid they won't let us
fight; still we shall see fighting, which is the next best thing."

"I heard in Warley yesterday that there will be a movement of the army in
Spain soon, and that some more troops will be sent out, and we shall try
and get into a regiment that is going."

They talked very long and earnestly on their plans, and were so engrossed
that they quite forgot how time went, and got in late for tea, and were
terribly scolded in consequence. For once none of them cared for the
storm; the boys exulted over the thought that it would be the last
scolding they would have to suffer; and Rhoda had difficulty in gasping
down her tears at the thought that it was the last meal that she would
take with them, for they had settled that they would start that very
night.

CHAPTER III. — ENLISTED.

It was a bright moonlight night when the boys, after a sad farewell from
Rhoda, let themselves down from the window, and started upon their
journey. Each carried a bundle on a stick; each bundle contained a suit of
clothes, a few shirts and stockings, a pair of shoes, and a pistol. The
other pistols were carried loaded inside their jackets, for there was no
saying whom they might meet upon the road. They had put on the oldest suit
of clothes they possessed, so as to attract as little attention as
possible by the way. After they had once recovered from their parting with
Rhoda their spirits rose, and they tramped along lightly and cheerfully.
It was eleven o'clock when they started, and through the night they did
not meet a single person. Towards morning they got under a haystack near
the road, and slept for some hours; then they walked steadily on until
they had done twenty miles since their start. They went into a small inn,
and had some breakfast, and then purchasing some bread and cold ham, went
on through the town, and leaving the London road, followed that leading to
Portsmouth, and after a mile or two again took up their quarters until
evening, in a haystack.

It is not necessary to give the details of the journey to Portsmouth.
After the first two days' tramp, having no longer any fear of the pursuit,
which, no doubt, had been made for them when first missed, they walked by
day, and slept at night in sheds, or under haystacks, as they were afraid
of being questioned and perhaps stopped at inns. They walked only short
distances now, for the first night's long journey had galled their feet,
and, as Tom said, they were not pressed for time, and did not want to
arrive at Portsmouth like two limping tramps. Walking, therefore, only
twelve miles a day after the first two days, they arrived at Portsmouth
fresh and in high spirits. They had met with no adventures upon the road,
except that upon one occasion two tramps had attempted to seize their
bundles, but the production of the pistols, and the evident determination
of the boys to use them if necessary, made the men abandon their intention
and make off, with much bad language and many threats, at which the boys
laughed disdainfully.

Arrived at Portsmouth, their first care was to find a quiet little inn,
where they could put up. This they had little difficulty in doing, for
Portsmouth abounded with public-houses, and people were so much accustomed
to young fellows tramping in with their bundles, to join their ships, that
their appearance excited no curiosity whatever. Tom looked older than he
really was, although not tall for his age, while Peter, if anything,
overtopped his brother, but was slighter, and looked fully two years
younger. Refreshed by a long night's sleep between sheets, they started
out after breakfast to see the town, and were greatly impressed and
delighted by the bustle of the streets, full of soldiers and sailors, and
still more by the fortifications and the numerous ships of war lying in
the harbor, or out at Spithead. A large fleet of merchantmen was lying off
at anchor, waiting for a convoy, and a perfect fleet of little wherries
was plying backwards and forwards between the vessels and the shore.

"It makes one almost wish to be a sailor," Peter said, as they sat upon
the Southsea beach, and looked out at the animated ocean.

"It does, Peter; and if it had been ten years back, instead of at present,
I should have been ready enough to change our plans. But what is the use
of going to sea now? The French and Spanish navies skulk in harbor, and
the first time our fellows get them out they will he sure to smash them
altogether, and then there is an end to all fighting. No, Peter, it looks
tempting, I grant, but we shall see ten times as much with the army. We
must go and settle the thing to-morrow. There is no time to be lost if the
expedition starts in a fortnight or three weeks."

Returning into the town, the boys were greatly amused at seeing a sailor's
wedding. Four carriages and pair drove along; inside were women, while
four sailors sat on each roof, waving their hats to the passers-by, and
refreshing themselves by repeated pulls at some black bottles, with which
they were well supplied. Making inquiries, the boys found that the men
belonged to a fine frigate which had come in a day or two before, with
several prizes.

The next morning they went down to the barracks. Several non-commissioned
officers, with bunches of gay ribbons in their caps, were standing about.
Outside the gates were some boards, with notices, "Active young fellows
required. Good pay, plenty of prize-money, and chances, of promotion!"

The boys read several of these notices, which differed only from each
other in the name of the regiment; and then Tom gave an exclamation of
satisfaction as he glanced at a note at the foot of one of them, "Two or
three active lads wanted as buglers."

"There we are, Peter; and, oh, what luck! it is Uncle Peter's regiment!
Look here, Peter," he said, after a pause, "we won't say anything about
being his nephews, unless there is no other way of getting taken; for if
we do it won't be nice. We shall be taken notice of, and not treated like
other fellows, and that will cause all sorts of ill-feeling and jealousy,
and rows. It will be quite time to say who we are when we have done
something to show that we shan't do discredit to him. You see it isn't
much in our favor that we are here as two runaway boys. If we were older
we could go as volunteers, but of course we are too young for that."

It should be mentioned that in those days it was by no means unusual for
young men who had not sufficient interest to get commissions to obtain
permission to accompany a regiment as volunteers. They paid their own
expenses, and lived with the officers, but did duty as private soldiers.
If they distinguished themselves, they obtained commissions to fill up
vacancies caused in action.

"There is our sergeant, Tom; let's get it over at once."

"If you please," Tom said, as they went up to the sergeant, "are you the
recruiting sergeant of the Norfolk Rangers?"

"By Jove, Summers, you are in luck to-day," laughed one of the other
sergeants; "here are two valuable recruits for the Rangers. The Mounseers
will have no chance with the regiment with such giants as those in it.
Come, my fine fellows, let me persuade you to join the 15th. Such little
bantams as you are would be thrown away upon the Rangers."

There was a shout of laughter from the other non-commissioned officers.

Tom was too much accustomed to chaffing bargees at Eton to be put out of
countenance.

"We may be bantams," he said, "but I have seen a bantam lick a big
dunghill cock many a time. Fine feathers don't always make fine birds, my
man."

"Well answered, young one," the sergeant of the Rangers said, while there
was a general laugh among the others, for the sergeant of the 15th was not
a favorite.

"You think yourself sharp, youngster," he said angrily. "You want a
licking, you do; and if you were in the 15th, you'd get it pretty
quickly."

"Oh! I beg your pardon," Tom said gravely; "I did not know that the 15th
were famous for thrashing boys. Thank you; when I enlist it shall be in a
regiment where men hit fellows their own size."

There was a shout of laughter, and the sergeant, enraged, stepped forward,
and gave Tom a swinging box on the ear.

There was a cry of "shame" from the others; but before any of them could
interfere, Tom suddenly stooped, caught the sergeant by the bottom of the
trousers, and in an instant he fell on his back with a crash.

For a moment he was slightly stunned, and then, regaining his feet, he was
about to rush at Tom, when the others threw themselves in between them,
and said he should not touch the boy. He struck him first, and the boy had
only given him what served him right.

The sergeant was furious, and an angry quarrel was going on, when an
officer of the Rangers came suddenly out of barrack.

"Hullo, Summers, what is all this about? I am surprised at you. A lot of
non-commissioned officers, just in front of the barrack gates, quarreling
like drunken sailors in a pothouse. What does it all mean?"

"The fact is this, Captain Manley," the sergeant said, saluting, "these
two lads came up to speak to me, when Sergeant Billow chaffed them. The
lad gave the sergeant as good as he got, and the sergeant lost his temper,
and hit him a box on the ear, and in a moment the young one tripped him
up, and pretty nigh stunned him; when he got up he was going at the boy,
and, of course, we wouldn't have it."

"Quite right," Captain Manley said. "Sergeant Billow, I shall forward a
report to your regiment. Chaffing people in the street, and then losing
your temper, striking a boy, and causing a disturbance. Now, sergeant," he
went on, as the others moved away, "do you know those boys?"

"No, sir; they are strangers to me."

"Do you want to see the sergeant privately, lads, or on something
connected with the regiment?"

"I see that you have vacancies for buglers, sir," Tom said, "and my
brother and myself want to enlist if you will take us."

Captain Manley smiled. "You young scamps, you have got 'runaway from home'
as plainly on your faces as if it was printed there. If we were to enlist
you, we should be having your friends here after you to-morrow, and get
into a scrape for taking you."

"We have no friends who will interfere with us, sir, I can give you my
word of honor as a gentleman." Captain Manley laughed. "I mean," Tom said
confused, "my word of honor, as—as an intending bugler."

"Indeed we have no one to interfere with us in any way, sir," Peter put in
earnestly. "We wouldn't tell a lie even to enlist in the Rangers."

Captain Manley was struck by the earnestness of the boys' faces, and after
a pause he said to the sergeant,—

"That will do, Summers; I will take these lads up to my quarters and speak
to them."

Then, motioning to the boys to follow him, he re-entered the barracks, and
led the way up to his quarters.

"Sit down," he said, when they had entered his room. "Now, boys, this is a
foolish freak upon your part, which you will regret some day. Of course
you have run away from school."

"No, sir, we have run away from home," Tom said.

"So much the worse," Captain Manley said gravely. "Tell me frankly, why
did you do so? No unkindness at home can excuse boys from running away
from their parents."

"We have none, sir," Tom said. "We have lost them both—our mother
many years ago, our father six months. Our only living relation, except a
younger sister, is an aunt, who considers us as nuisances, and who,
although meaning to do her duty, simply drives us out of our minds."

Captain Manley could not resist a smile. "Do you not go to school?"

"We did go to a school near, but unfortunately it is broken up."

Captain Manley caught a little look of amusement between the boys. "I
should not be surprised if you had something to do with its breaking up,"
he said with a laugh. "But to return to your coming here. There is
certainly less reason against your joining than I thought at first, but
you are too young."

"We are both strong, and are good walkers," Tom said.

"But you cannot be much over fifteen," Captain Manley said, "and your
brother is younger."

"We are accustomed to strong exercise, sir, and can thrash most fellows of
our own size."

"Very likely," Captain Manley said, "but we can't take that into
consideration. You are certainly young for buglers for service work;
however, I will go across with you to the orderly-room, and hear what the
colonel says."

Crossing the barrack-yard, they found the colonel was in and disengaged.

"Colonel Tritton," Captain Manley said, "these lads want to enlist as
buglers."

The colonel looked up and smiled. "They look regular young pickles," he
said. "I suppose they have run away from school."

"Not from school, colonel. They have lost both parents, and live with an
aunt, with whom they don't get on well. There does not seem to be much
chance of their being claimed."

"You are full young," the colonel said, "and I think you will be sorry,
boys, for the step you want to take."

"I don't think so, sir," Tom said.

"Of course, you don't at present," the colonel said. "However, that is
your business. Mind, you will have a rough time of it; you will have to
fight your way, you know."

"I'll back them to hold their own," Captain Manley said, laughing. "When I
went out at the barrack-gate just now there was a row among a lot of
recruiting sergeants, and when I went up to put a stop to it, I found that
a fellow of the 15th had chaffed these boys when they went up to speak to
Summers, and that they had got the best of it in that line; and the fellow
having lost his temper and struck one of them, he found himself on his
back on the pavement. The boy had tripped him up in an instant."

The colonel laughed, and then said suddenly and sharply to Peter, "Where
did you learn that trick, youngster?"

"At Eton," Peter answered promptly, and then colored up hotly at his
brother's reproachful glance.

"Oh, ho! At Eton, young gentlemen, eh!" the colonel said. "That alters the
matter. If you were at Eton your family must be people of property, and I
can't let you do such a foolish thing as enlist as buglers."

"Our father lost all his money suddenly, owing to a blackguard he trusted
cheating him. He found it out, and it killed him," Tom said quietly.

The colonel saw he was speaking the truth. "Well, well," he said kindly,
"we must see what we can do for you, boys. They are young, Manley, but
that will improve, and by the time that they have been a year at the depôt—"

"Oh, if you please, colonel," Tom said, "we want to go on foreign service,
and it's knowing that your regiment was under orders for foreign service
we came to it."

"Impossible!" the colonel said shortly.

"I am very sorry for that, sir," Tom said respectfully, "for we would
rather belong to this regiment than any in the service; but if you will
not let us go with it we must try another."

"Why would you rather belong to us than to any other?" the colonel asked,
as the boys turned to leave the room.

"I had rather not say, sir," Tom said. "We have a reason, and a very good
one, but it is not one we should like to tell."

The colonel was silent for a minute. He was struck with the boys'
appearance and manner, and was sorry at the thought of losing them, partly
from interest in themselves, partly because the sea service was generally
so much more attractive to boys, that it was not easy to get them to
enlist as buglers and drummers.

"You see, lads, I should really like to take you, but we shall be starting
in a fortnight, and it would be altogether impossible for you to learn to
sound the bugle, to say nothing of learning the calls, by that time."

"We can't play well, sir," Tom answered, his spirits rising again, "but we
have practiced for some time, and know a good many of the calls."

"Oh, indeed!" the colonel said, pleased; "that alters the case. Well,
lads, I should like to take you with the regiment, for you look
straightforward, sharp young fellows. So I will enlist you. Work hard for
the next fortnight, and if I hear a favorable report of you by that time,
you shall go."

"Thank you very much," the boys said warmly, delighted to find their hopes
realized.

"What are your names?" the colonel asked.

"Tom and Peter," Tom answered.

"Tom and Peter what?" the colonel said.

The boys looked at each other. The fact that they would of course be asked
their names had never occurred to them, and they not had therefore
consulted whether to give their own or another name.

"Come, boys," Colonel Tritton said good-temperedly, "never be ashamed of
your names; don't sail under false colors, lads. I am sure you will do
nothing to disgrace your names."

Tom looked at Peter, and saw that he agreed to give their real names, so
he said, "Tom and Peter Scudamore."

"Peter Scudamore! Why, Manley, these boys must be relations of the dear
old colonel. That explains why they chose the regiment. Now, boys, what
relation was he of yours?"

"I do not admit that he was a relation at all, colonel," Tom said gravely,
"and I hope that you will not ask the question. Supposing that he had been
a relation of ours, we should not wish it to be known. In the first place,
it would not be altogether creditable to his memory that relations of his
should be serving as buglers in his old regiment; and in the second place,
it might be that, from a kindness towards him, some of the officers might,
perhaps, treat us differently to other boys, which would make our position
more difficult by exciting jealousy among others. Should there be any
relation between him and us, it will be time enough for us to claim it
when we have shown ourselves worthy of it."

"Well said, boys," the officers both exclaimed. "You are quite right," the
colonel went on, "and I respect your motive for keeping silence. What you
say about jealousy which might arise is very sensible and true. At the
same time, I will promise you that I will keep my eye upon you, and that
if an opportunity should occur in which I can give you a chance of showing
that there is more in you than in other boys, be sure you shall have the
chance."

"Thank you very much indeed, colonel," both boys exclaimed.

"Now, Manley, I shall be obliged if you will take them to the adjutant,
and tell him to swear them in and attest them in regular form; the surgeon
will, of course, examine them. Please tell the quartermaster to get their
uniforms made without loss of time; and give a hint to the bugle-major
that I should be pleased if he will pay extra attention to them, and push
them on as fast as possible."

Captain Manley carried out these instructions, the boys were duly examined
by the surgeon and passed, and in half an hour became His Majesty's
servants.

"Now, boys," Captain Manley said as he crossed with them to the quarters
of the bandmaster, "you will have rather a difficult course to steer, but
I have no doubt you will get through it with credit. This is something
like a school, and you will have to fight before you find your place.
Don't be in a hurry to begin; take all good-natured chaff good-naturedly;
resent any attempt at bullying. I have no doubt you will be popular, and
it is well that you should be so, for then there will be no jealousy if
your luck seems better than that of others. They will, of course, know
that you are differently born and educated to themselves, but they will
not like you any the worse for that, if they find that you do not try to
keep aloof from them or give yourselves airs. And look here, boys, play
any tricks you like with the men, but don't do it with the
non-commissioned officers. There is nothing they hate so much as impudence
from the boys, and they have it in their power to do you a great deal of
good or of harm. You will not have much to do with the bandmaster. Only a
portion of the band accompanies us, and even that will be broken up when
we once enter upon active campaigning. Several of the company buglers have
either left lately, or have got their stripes and given up their bugles,
and I do not fancy that their places will be filled up before we get out
there. Now, your great object will be to get two of these vacancies. I am
afraid you are too young, still there will be plenty more vacancies after
we are once in the field, for a bullet has no respect for buglers; and you
see the better you behave the better your chance of being chosen."

"What is the difference exactly, sir?" Tom asked.

"The company bugler ranks on the strength of the company, messes, marches,
and goes into action with them; the other buglers merely form part of the
band, are under the bandmaster, play at the head of the regiment on its
march, and help in the hospitals during a battle."

"Macpherson," he said as he entered the bandmaster's quarters, where a
number of men and a few lads were practicing, "I have brought you two lads
who have entered as buglers."

The bandmaster was a Scotchman—a stiff-looking, elderly man.

"Weel, Captain Manley, I'm wanting boys, but they look vera young, and I
misdoubt they had better have been at school than here. However, I'll do
my best with them; they look smart lads, and we shall have plenty of time
at the depôt to get them into shape."

"Lots of time, Macpherson, lots of time. They say they know a few calls on
the bugle, so perhaps they had better stick to the calls at present; you
will have plenty of time to begin with them regularly with the notes when
all the bustle is over."

"Eh, ye know the calls, boys? Hardy and Graves, give them your bugles, and
let us hear them. Now for the advance."

Tom and Peter felt very nervous, but they had really practiced hard for an
hour a day for the last four months, and could play all the calls they
knew steadily and well. The bandmaster made no remark until they had
sounded some half a dozen calls as he named them, and then he said, "The
lads have a vera gude idea of it, Captain Manley. They are steadier and
clearer than mony a one of the boys already. Will ye begin at once, lads,
or will ye wait till ye get your uniform?"

"We had rather begin at once," the boys answered together.

"Vera gude. Hardy, take two bugles out of the chest, and then take these
lads—What's your name, boys? Eh? Scudamore? A vera gude name—take
them over to Corporal Skinner, he will be practicing with the others on
the ramp."

With a word of grateful thanks to Captain Manley as he went out before
them, the boys followed their new guide out to the ramparts. A guide was
hardly necessary, for an incessant bugling betokened the place, where, in
one of the bastions behind the barracks, seven or eight buglers were
sounding the various calls under the direction of Corporal Skinner.

The corporal was a man of few words, for he merely nodded when the boy—who
had not opened his lips on the way, indeed, he was too busy wondering who
these young swells were, and what they had run away for, to say a word—gave
the bandmaster's message to the effect that the new-comers knew some of
the calls and were to be under his tuition for the present, pointed to
them where to stand, and in another minute Tom and Peter were hard at work
adding to the deafening din. After half an hour's practice they were
pleased at seeing Captain Manley stroll up and call their instructor
aside, and they felt sure that he was speaking to him of them. This was
so, for the officer was carrying out the instructions he had received from
Colonel Tritton.

"Corporal," he said, "I want to say a word to you about those boys who
have just joined. They seem to have a fair idea of the calls."

"Yes, sir, they only know a few, but those they do know they can sound as
well as any of them."

"That is right, corporal. Now look here, what I am going to say is not to
go farther, you understand."

"Yes, sir, I will keep my mouth shut."

"Very well. You can see the lads are not like most of our band boys. They
are a gentleman's sons who have got into some scrape or other and run away
from school."

"I was thinking as much, sir."

"The colonel believes that he knows their family, Skinner; but of course,
that will not make any difference in regard to them. Still he would be
pleased, I know, if they could sound the calls well enough to go with the
regiment. They are most anxious to learn. Now I shall be glad if you can
get them up to the mark. It will, of course, entail a lot of extra trouble
upon you, but if you can get them fit in time, I will pay you a couple of
guineas for your extra time."

"Thank you, sir," the corporal saluted. "I think I can manage it—at
any rate if I don't it won't be for want of trying."

"Who are those nice-looking lads I saw with you, Manley?" Major James
asked as the captain came into the messroom to lunch.

"Those are two buglers in his Majesty's Norfolk Rangers."

There was a general laugh.

"No, but really, Manley, who are they? I was quite struck with them; good
style of boys."

"It is a fact, major. Harding will tell you so," and he nodded to the
adjutant.

"Yes, Manley is saying the thing that's right," the adjutant answered.
"The doctor passed them, and I swore them in."

"I am sorry for it," the major said. "There were three or four of us
standing on the mess-room steps and we all noticed them. They were
gentlemen, if I ever saw one, and a hard life they will have of it with
the band boys. However, they are not likely to stay there. They have run
away from school, of course, and will be claimed. I wonder you enlisted
them."

"The colonel's orders, major," the adjutant said. "Manley took them to
him, I believe, and then brought them to me."

"I don't think you need feel anxious about them among the boys, major,"
Captain Manley said. "I fancy they can hold their own. I found them
outside the gate where a row was going on among some of the recruiting
sergeants, and one of those boys had just tripped up a sergeant of the
15th and nearly broken his head."

There was a general laugh.

"They are quite interesting, these prodigies of yours, Manley. How did the
boy do it? I should not have thought him strong enough to have thrown a
man off his balance."

"I asked Summers about it afterwards," Captain Manley said, "the fellow
gave one of the boys a box on the ear, and in an instant the boy stooped,
caught his foot and pulled it forward and up. The thing was done in a
moment, and the sergeant was on his back before he knew what's what."

"By Jove," a young ensign said, "I have seen that trick done at Eton."

"That is just where the boy said he learnt it," Captain Manley said. "The
colonel asked him suddenly, and it slipped out."

"If they're Etonians, I ought to know them," the ensign said. "I only left
six months ago. What are their names?"

"Their name is Scudamore."

"By Jove, they were in the same house with me. Uncommonly sharp little
fellows, and up to no end of mischief. It was always believed, though no
one could prove it, that they were the boys who nearly suffocated the
bargee."

There was a roar of laughter.

"Tell us all about, Carruthers."

"Well, there was not very much known about it. It seems the fellow
purposely upset a boat with four or five of our fellows in it, and that
night a dozen lighted crackers were thrown down into the little cabin
where the fellow was asleep; the hatch was fastened and he was sent
drifting down stream with the crackers exploding all about him. The smoke
nearly suffocated the fellow, I believe There was a tremendous row about
it, but they could not bring it home to any one. We always put it down to
the Scudamores, though they never would own to it; but they were the only
fellows in the boat who would have done it, and they were always up to
mischief."

"But what makes them come here as buglers?" the major asked.

"Their father was a banker, I believe, down in the Eastern Counties
somewhere. He died suddenly in the middle of the half before I left, and
they went away to the funeral and never came back again."

"The fact is," Captain Manley said, "I fancy by what they say, though they
did not mention their father was a banker, that he lost all his money
suddenly and died of the shock. At any rate they are alone in the world,
and the colonel has no doubt that they are some relation—nephews, I
should imagine—of Peter Scudamore, who was our colonel when I
joined. One of them is called Peter. They acknowledged that they had a
particular reason for choosing this regiment; but they would neither
acknowledge or deny that he was a relation. Now that we know their father
was a banker, we shall find out without difficulty—indeed I have no
doubt the colonel will know whether Peter Scudamore had a brother a
banker."

"What's to be done, Manley?" Major James said. "I don't like the thought
of poor old Peter's nephews turning buglers. All of us field officers, and
the best part of you captains, served under him, and a better fellow never
stepped. I think between us we might do something."

"I would do anything I could," Carruthers said, "and there are Watson and
Talbot who were at Eton too. Dash it, I don't like to think of two
Etonians in a band," "You are all very good," Captain Manley said, "but
from what I see of the boys they will go their own way. They have plenty
of pride, and they acknowledge that their reason for refusing to say
whether they are any relation of the colonel was that they did not want to
be taken notice of or treated differently from other boys, because it
would cause jealousy, and make their position more difficult. All they
asked was that they might accompany the regiment, and not remain behind at
the depôt; and as, fortunately, they have both been practising with the
bugle, and can sound most of the calls as well as the others, the colonel
was able to grant their request. Had they been older, of course, we could
have arranged for them to go with us as volunteers, we who knew the
colonel, paying their expenses between us: as it is, the only thing we can
do for them—and that is what they would like best is to treat them
just like the other boys, but to give them every chance of distinguishing
themselves. If they don't get knocked over, they ought to win a commission
before the campaign is over."

In the meantime Tom and Peter had been introducing themselves to the
regiment. The exercise over, they had returned to dinner. It was a rough
meal, but the boys enjoyed it, and after it was over a number of the men
of the band, with whom they messed, crowded round to ask the usual
questions of new-comers—their curiosity heightened in the present
instance by the fact that the boys differed so widely from ordinary
recruits.

"Look here," Tom said, laughing, "I can't answer you all at once, but if
you put me on the table I will tell you all about us."

There was a general laugh, and many of the soldiers other than the band
sauntered up to see what was going on.

"The first thing to tell you," Tom said, "is our names. We go by the names
of Tom and Peter Scudamore, but I need scarcely tell you that these are
not our real names. The fact is—but this is quite a secret—we
are the eldest sons of Sir Arthur Wellesley—"

Here Tom was interrupted by a shout of laughter.

"Sir Arthur," Tom went on calmly, "wished to make us colonels of two of
the Life Guard regiments, but as they were not going on foreign service we
did not see it, and have accordingly entered the regiment which Sir
Arthur, our father, in speaking to a friend, said was the finest in the
service—namely, the Norfolk Rangers. We believe that it is the
custom, upon entering a regiment, to pay our footing, and I have given a
guinea to Corporal Skinner, and asked him to make it go as far as he
could."

There was great laughter over Tom's speech, which was just suited to
soldiers, and the boys from that moment were considered part of the
regiment.

"There's good stuff in those boys," an old sergeant said to another,
"plucky and cool. I shouldn't be surprised if what Tom Dillon said was
about right; he was waiting at mess just now, and though he didn't hear
all that was said, he picked up that there was an idea that these boys are
related to the old colonel. He was a good fellow, he was, and, though I
say nothing against Colonel Tritton, yet we missed Colonel Scudamore
terribly. Strict, and yet kind, just the sort of fellow to serve under. If
the boys take after him they will be a credit to the regiment, and mark my
words, we shan't see them in the band many years."

CHAPTER IV. — A TOUGH CUSTOMER.

Like most boys who are fond of play, Tom and Peter Scudamore were capable
of hard work at a pinch, and during the three weeks that they spent at
Portsmouth they certainly worked with a will. They had nothing to do in
the way of duty, except to practice the bugle, and this they did with a
zeal and perseverance that quite won the heart of Corporal Skinner, and
enabled him to look upon Captain Manley's two guineas as good as earned.
But even with the best will and the strongest lungs possible, boys can
only blow a bugle a certain number of hours a day. For an hour before
breakfast, for two hours before dinner, and for an hour and a half in the
evening they practiced, the evening work being extra, alone with their
instructor. There remained the whole afternoon to themselves. Their
employment of those hours had been undertaken at Peter's suggestion.

"Look here, Tom," he said, at the end of the first day's work, "from what
the corporal says, we shall have from one till about five to ourselves.
Now, we are going to Spain, and it seems to me that it would be of great
use to us, and might do us a great deal of good, to know something of
Spanish. We have got four pounds each left, and I don't think that we
could lay it out better than in getting a Spanish master and some books,
and in setting to in earnest at it. If we work with all our might for four
hours a day with a master, we shall have made some progress, and shall
pick up the pronunciation a little. I dare say we shall be another ten
days or a fortnight on the voyage, and shall have lots of time on our
hands. It will make it so much easier to pick it up when we get there if
we know a little to start with."

"I think it is a capital idea, Peter; I should think we are pretty sure to
find a master here."

There was no difficulty upon that score, for there were a large number of
Spanish in England at the time; men who had left the country rather than
remain under the French yoke, and among them were many who were glad to
get their living by teaching their native language. There were two or
three in this condition in Portsmouth, and to one of these the boys
applied. He was rather surprised at the application from the two young
buglers—for the uniforms were finished twenty-four hours after their
arrival—but at once agreed to devote his whole afternoons to them.
Having a strong motive for their work, and a determination to succeed in
it, the boys made a progress that astonished both themselves and their
teacher, and they now found the advantage of their grounding in Latin at
Eton. Absorbed in their work, they saw little of the other boys, except at
meals and when at practice.

One evening when at supper, one of the buglers, named Mitcham, a lad of
nearly eighteen, made some sneering remark about boys who thought
themselves above others, and gave themselves airs. Tom saw at once that
this allusion was meant for them, and took the matter up.

"I suppose you mean us, Mitcham. You are quite mistaken; neither my
brother nor myself think ourselves better than any one, nor have we any
idea of giving ourselves airs. The fact is—and I am not surprised
that you should think us unsociable—we are taking lessons in
Spanish. If we go with the regiment it will be very useful, and I have
heard it said that any one who lands in a foreign country, and who knows a
little of the grammar and pronunciation, will learn it in half the time
that he would were he altogether ignorant of both. I am sorry that I did
not mention it before, because I can understand that it must seem as if we
did not want to be sociable. I can assure you that we do; and that after
this fortnight is over we shall be ready to be as jolly as any one. You
see we are altogether behindhand with our work now, and have got to work
hard to put ourselves on your level."

Tom spoke so good-temperedly that there was a general feeling in his
favor, and several of them who had before thought with Mitcham, that the
new-comers were not inclined to be sociable, felt that they had been
mistaken. There was, however, a general feeling of surprise and amusement
at the idea of two boys voluntarily taking lessons in Spanish. Mitcham,
however, who was a surly-tempered young fellow, and who was jealous of the
progress which the boys were making, and of the general liking with which
they seemed to be regarded, said,—

"I believe that's only an excuse for getting away from us."

"Do you mean to say that you think that I am telling a lie?" Tom asked
quietly.

"Yes, if you put it in that way, young 'un," Mitcham said.

"Hold your tongue, Mitcham, or I'll pull your ears for you," Corporal
Skinner said: but his speech was cut short by Tom's putting one hand on
the barrack table, vaulting across it, and striking Mitcham a heavy blow
between the eyes.

There was a cry of "a fight!" among the boys, but the men interfered at
once.

"You don't know what you are doing, young 'un," one said to Tom; "when you
hit a fellow here, you must fight him. That's the rule, and you can't
fight Mitcham; he's two years older, at least, and a head taller."

"Of course I will fight him," Tom said. "I would fight him if he were
twice as big, if he called me a liar."

"Nonsense, young 'un!" another said, "it's not possible. He was wrong, and
if you had not struck him I would have licked him myself; but as you have
done so, you had better put up with a thrashing, and have done with it."

"I should think so, indeed!" Tom said disdainfully. "I may get a licking;
I dare say I shall; but it won't be all on one side. Look here, Mitcham,
we will have it out to-morrow, on the ramparts behind the barracks. But,
if you will apologize to me for calling me a liar, I'll say I am sorry I
hit you."

"Oh, blow your sorrow!" the lad said. "I'll give you the heartiest licking
you ever had in your life, my young cock."

"Oh, all right," Tom said cheerfully. "We will see all about it when the
time comes."

As it was evident now that there was no way out of it, no one interfered
further in the matter. Quarrels in the army are always settled by a fair
fight, as at school; but several of the older men questioned among
themselves whether they ought to let this go on, considering that Tom
Scudamore was only between fifteen and sixteen, while his opponent was two
years older, and was so much heavier and stronger. However, as it was
plain that Tom would not take a thrashing for the blow he had struck, and
there did not seem any satisfactory way out of it, nothing was done,
except that two or three of them went up to Mitcham, and strongly urged
him to shake hands with Tom, and confess that he had done wrong in giving
him the lie. This Mitcham would not hear of, and there was nothing further
to be done.

"I am afraid, Tom, you have no chance with that fellow." Peter said, as
they were undressing.

"No chance in the world, Peter; but I can box fairly, you know, and am
pretty hard. I shall be able to punish him a bit, and you may be sure I
shall never give in. It's no great odds getting a licking, and I suppose
that they will stop it before I am killed. Don't bother about it. I had
rather get knocked about in a fight than get flogged at Eton any day. I
would rather you did not come to see it, Peter, if you don't mind. When
you fought Evans it hurt me ten times as much as if I had been fighting,
and, although you licked him, it made me feel like a girl. I can stand
twice the punishment if I don't feel that any blow is hitting you as well
as myself."

Tom's prediction about the fight turned out to be nearly correct. He was
more active, and a vastly better boxer than his antagonist, and although
he was constantly knocked down, he punished him very heavily about the
face. In fact, the fight was exactly similar to that great battle, fifty
years afterwards, between Sayers and Heenan. Time after time Tom was
knocked down, and even his second begged him to give in, but he would not
hear of it. Breathless and exhausted, but always cool and smiling, he
faced his heavy antagonist, eluding his furious rushes, and managing to
strike a few straight blows at his eyes before being knocked down. By the
time that they had fought a quarter of an hour half the regiment was
assembled, and loud were the cheers which greeted Tom each time he came
up, very pale and bleeding, but confident, against his antagonist.

At last an old sergeant came forward. "Come," he said, "there has been
enough of this. You had better stop."

"Will he say he was sorry he called me a liar?" Tom asked.

"No, I won't," Mitcham answered.

The sergeant was about to use his authority to stop it, when Tom said to
him, in a low voice:

"Look, sergeant! please let us go on another five minutes. I think I can
stand that, and he can hardly see out of his eyes now. He won't see a bit
by that time."

The sergeant hesitated, but a glance at Tom's antagonist convinced him
that what he said was correct. Mitcham had at all times a round and rather
puffy face, and his cheeks were now so swollen with the effect of Tom's
straight, steady hitting, that he could with difficulty see.

It was a hard five minutes for Tom, for his antagonist, finding that he
was rapidly getting blind, rushed with fury upon him, trying to end the
fight. Tom had less difficulty in guarding the blows, given wildly and
almost at random, but he was knocked down time after time by the mere
force and weight of the rush. He felt himself getting weak, and could
hardly get up from his second's knee upon the call of time. He was not
afraid of being made to give in, but he was afraid of fainting, and of so
being unable to come up to time.

"Stick a knife into me; do anything!" he said to his second, "if I go off,
only bring me up to time. He can't hold out much longer."

Nor could he. His hitting became more and more at random, until at last,
on getting up from his second's knee, Mitcham cried in a hoarse voice,
"Where is he? I can't see him!"

Then Tom went forward with his hands down. "Look here, Mitcham, you can't
see, and I can hardly stand. I think we have both done enough. We neither
of us can give in, well because—because I am a gentleman, you
because you are bigger than I am; so let's shake hands, and say no more
about it."

Mitcham hesitated an instant, and then held out his hand. "You are a good
fellow, Scudamore, and there's my hand; but you have licked me fairly. I
can't come up to time, and you can. There, I am sorry I called you a
liar."

Tom took the hand, and shook it, and then a mist came over his eyes, and
his knees tottered, as, with the ringing cheers of the men in his ears, he
fainted into his second's arms.

"What a row the men are making!" the major said, as the sound of cheering
came through the open window of the mess-room, at which the officers were
sitting at lunch. "It's a fight of course, and a good one, judging by the
cheering. Does any one know who it is between?"

No one had heard.

"It's over now," the adjutant said, looking out of the window, "Here are
the men coming down in a stream. They look very excited over it. I wonder
who it has been. Stokes," he said, turning to one of the mess servants,
"go out, and find out who has been fighting, and all about it."

In a minute or two the man returned. "It's two of the band boys, sir."

"Oh, only two boys! I wonder they made such a fuss over that. Who are
they?"

"One was one of the boys who have just joined, sir. Tom Scudamore, they
call him."

"I guessed as much," Captain Manley laughed; "I knew they would not be
long here without a fight. Who was the other?"

"Well, sir, I almost thought it must be a mistake when they told me,
seeing they are so unequally matched, but they all say so, so in course
it's true—the other was Mitcham, the bugler of No. 3 Company."

"What a shame!" was the general exclamation, while Captain Manley got up
and called for his cap.

"A brutal shame, I call it," he said hotly. "Mitcham's nearly a man. It
ought not to have been allowed. I will go and inquire after the boy. I
will bet five pounds he was pretty nearly killed before he gave in."

"He didn't give in, Captain Manley," the servant said. "He won the fight.
They fought till Mitcham couldn't see, and then young Scudamore went up
and offered to draw it, but Mitcham acknowledged he was fairly licked. It
was a close thing, for the boy fainted right off; but he's come round now,
and says he's all right."

"Hurrah for Eton!" Carruthers shouted enthusiastically. "Hurrah! By Jove,
he is game, and no mistake. He won a hard fight or two at Eton, but
nothing like this. I call it splendid."

"The boy might have been killed," the major said gravely; while the
younger officers joined in Carruthers's exclamation at Tom's pluck. "It is
shameful that it was allowed. I suppose the quarrel began in their
quarters. Sergeant Howden is in charge of the room, and ought to have
stopped it at once. Every non-commissioned officer ought to have stopped
it. I will have Howden up before the colonel to-morrow."

"I think, major," Captain Manley said, "if you will excuse me, the best
plan, as far as the boy is concerned, is to take no notice of it. As it
is, he must have won the hearts of all the regiment by his pluck, and if
he is not seriously hurt, it is the very best thing, as it has turned out,
that could have happened. If any one gets into a scrape about it, it might
lessen the effect of the victory. I think if you call Howden up, and give
him a quiet wigging, it will do as well, and won't injure the boys. What
do you think?"

"Yes, you are right, Manley, as it has turned out; but the boy might have
been killed. However, I won't do more than give Howden a hearty wigging,
and will then learn how the affair begun. I think, Dr. Stathers, that it
would be as well if you went round and saw both of them. You had better, I
think, order them into hospital for the night, and then the boy can go to
bed at once, and come out again to-morrow, if he has, as I hope, nothing
worse than a few bruises. Please come back, and tell us how you find
them."

The report was favorable, and the next morning Tom came out of hospital,
and took his place as usual, with the party upon the ramparts—pale,
and a good deal marked, but not much the worse for his battle; but it was
some days before the swelling of his adversary's face subsided
sufficiently for him to return to duty.

Tom's victory—as Captain Manley had predicted—quite won the
hearts of the whole regiment, and the nicknames of "Sir Tom," and "Sir
Peter"—which had been given to them in jest after Tom's speech about
Sir Arthur Wellesley—were now generally applied to them. The
conversation in the mess-room had got about, and the old soldiers who had
served under Colonel Scudamore would have done anything for the lads,
although, as yet, they were hardly known personally except to the band, as
their devotion to work kept them quite apart from the men.

It was just three weeks after they had joined before the order came for
embarkation, and a thrill of pleasure and excitement ran through the
regiment when it was known that they were to go on board in four days. Not
the least delighted were Tom and Peter. It had already been formally
settled that they were to accompany the regiment, and it was a proof of
the popularity that they had gained, that every one looked upon their
going as a matter of course, and that no comment was excited even among
those who were left behind. Three days before starting they had met
Captain Manley in the barrack-yard, and after saluting, Tom said, "If you
please, sir, we wanted to ask you a question."

"What is that, lads?"

"If you please, sir, we understand that the boys of the band have their
bags carried for them, but the company buglers carry knapsacks, like the
men?"

"Yes, boys; the company buglers carry knapsacks and muskets."

"I am afraid we could not carry muskets and do much marching, sir, but we
have each a brace of pistols."

Captain Manley smiled. "Pistols would not look the thing on a
parade-ground, boys; but in a campaign people are not very particular, and
I have no doubt the colonel will overlook any little breach of strict
uniformity in your cases, as it is evident you can't carry muskets. You
can use your pistols, I hope," he said with a smile. "Hit a penny every
time at twenty paces!"

"No, sir, we can't do that," Tom said seriously. "We can hit a good-sized
apple nineteen times out of twenty."

"The deuce you can!" Captain Manley said. "How did you learn to do that?"

"We have practiced twelve shots a day for the last six months, sir. We
were thinking of asking you, sir, if you would like to carry a brace of
them through the campaign. They are splendid weapons; and we shall only
carry one each. They would get rusty and spoil, if we left them behind,
and we should be very pleased to think they might be useful to you, after
your great kindness to us."

"It is not a very regular thing, boys," Captain Manley said, "for a
captain to be borrowing a brace of pistols from two of his buglers; but
you are exceptional buglers, and there is something in what you say about
rusting. Besides, it is possible you may lose yours, so I will accept your
offer with thanks, with the understanding that I will carry the pistols,
and you shall have them again if anything happens to yours. But how about
the knapsacks?"

"We were thinking of having two made of the regimental pattern, sir, but
smaller and lighter, if you think that it would be allowed."

"Well, I think, boys, if you are allowed to carry pistols instead of
muskets, no great objection will be made as to the exact size of the
knapsacks. Yes, you can get them made, and I will speak to the colonel
about it."

"Perhaps," he hesitated, "you may be in want of a little money; do not
hesitate if you do. I can let you have five pounds, and you can pay me,"
he said with a laugh, "out of your share of our first prize-money."

The boys colored hotly.

"No, thank you, Captain Manley; we have plenty of money. Shall we bring
the pistols to your quarters?"

"Do, lads, I am going in to lunch now, and will be in in half an hour."

The boys at once went out and ordered their knapsacks. They had just sold
their watches, which were large, handsome, and of gold, and had been given
to them by their father when they went to Eton. They were very sorry to
part with them, but they agreed that it would be folly to keep gold
watches when the twenty pounds which they obtained for them would buy two
stout and useful silver watches and would leave them twelve pounds in
money. They then returned to barracks, took out a brace of their pistols,
carefully cleaned them, and removed the silver plates upon the handles,
and then walked across to Captain Manley's quarters.

Rather to their surprise and confusion they found five or six other
officers there, for Captain Manley had mentioned at lunch to the amusement
of his friends that he was going to be unexpectedly provided with a brace
of pistols, and several of them at once said that they would go up with
him to his quarters, as they wanted to see the boys of whom they had
spoken so much during the last fortnight. Tom and Peter drew themselves up
and saluted stiffly.

"You need not be buglers here, boys," Captain Manley said. "This is my
room, we are all gentlemen, and though I could not, according to the
regulations, walk down the street with you, the strictest disciplinarian
would excuse my doing as I like here."

The boys flushed with pleasure at Captain Manley's kind address, and as he
finished Carruthers stepped forward and shook them warmly by the hand.

"How are you both?" he said. "You have not forgotten me, I hope."

"I had not seen you before. I did not know you were in the regiment,
Carruthers," the boys said warmly, pleased to find a face they had known
before; and then breaking off:—"I beg your pardon—Mr.
Carruthers."

"There are no misters here as far as I am concerned, Scudamore. There were
no misters at Eton. This is a change, isn't it? Better than grinding away
at Greek by a long way. Well, I congratulate you on your fight. You showed
there was some good in dear old Eton still. I wish you had let me know it
was coming off. I would have given anything to have seen it—from a
distance, you know. If it had been the right thing, I would have come and
been your backer."

There was a general laugh, and then the officers all began to talk to the
boys. They were quiet and respectful in their manners, and fully confirmed
the favorable report which Captain Manley had given of them.

"Where are the pistols, boys?" their friend asked presently.

"Here, sir," and the boys produced them from under their jackets. "We have
no case, sir; we were obliged to leave it behind us when we—"

"Ran away," one of the officers said, laughing.

"They are a splendid pair of pistols," Captain Manley said, examining
them; "beautifully finished, and rifled. They look quite new, too, though,
of course, they are not."

"They are new, sir," Tom said; "we have only had them six months, and they
were new then."

"Indeed," Captain Manley said surprised; "I thought, of course, they were
family pistols. Why, how on earth, if it is not an impertinent question,
did you boys get hold of two brace of such pistols as these? I have no
right to ask the question, boys. I see there has been a plate on the
handles. But you said you had no relations, and I was surprised into
asking."

The boys colored.

"The question was quite natural, sir; the pistols were presented to us by
some people we traveled with once; we took the plates off because they
made a great fuss about nothing, and we thought that it would look
cockey."

There was a laugh among the officers at the boys' confusion.

"No one would suspect you of being cockey, Scudamore," Captain Manley said
kindly; "come, let me see the plates."

The boys took the little silver plates from their pockets and handed them
silently to Captain Manley, who read aloud, to the surprise of those
around him,—"'To Tom' and 'Peter,' they are alike except the names.
'To Tom Scudamore, presented by the passengers in the Highflyer coach on
the 4th of August, 1808, as a testimony of their appreciation of his
gallant conduct, by which their property was saved from plunder.' Why,
what is this, you young pickles, what were you up to on the 4th of August
last year?"

"There was nothing in it at all, sir," Tom said; "we were on the coach and
were stopped by highwaymen. One of the passengers had pistols, but was
afraid to use them, and hid them among the boxes. So when the passengers
were ordered to get down to be searched, we hid ourselves, and when the
highwaymen were collecting their watches, Peter shot one, and I drove the
coach over another. The matter was very simple indeed; but the passengers
saved their money, so made a great fuss about it."

There was much laughter over Tom's statement, and then he had to give a
detailed account of the whole affair, which elicited many expressions of
approval.

"It does you credit, boys," Captain Manley said, "and shows that you are
cool as well as plucky. One quality is as valuable as the other. There is
every hope that you will do the regiment credit, boys, and you may be sure
that we shall give you every chance. And now good-bye for the present."

"Good-bye, sir," Tom and Peter again drew themselves up, gave the military
salute, and went off to their comrades.

For when the order came to prepare for the embarkation, both Spanish and
bugling were given up, and the boys entered into the pleasure of the
holiday with immense zest. They had no regimental duties to perform beyond
being present at parade. They had no packing to do, and fewer purchases to
make. A ball or two of stout string, for, as Peter said, string is always
handy, and a large pocket-knife, each with a variety of blades, were the
principal items. They had a ring put to the knives, so that they could
sling them round the waist. They had, therefore, nothing to do but to
amuse themselves, and this they did with a heartiness which astonished the
other boys, and proved conclusively that they did not want to be
unsociable. They hired a boat for a sail and took five or six other boys
across to Ryde, only just returning in time for tattoo, and they played
such a number of small practical jokes, such as putting a handful of peas
into the bugles and other wind instruments, that the band-master declared
that he thought that they were all bewitched, and he threatened to thrash
the boys all round, because he could not find out who had done it.

Especially angry was the man who played the big drum. This was a gigantic
negro, named Sam, a kind-hearted fellow, constantly smiling, except when
the thought of his own importance made him assume a particularly grave
appearance. He was a general favorite, although the boys were rather
afraid of him, for he was apt to get into a passion if any jokes were
attempted upon him, and of all offences the greatest was to call him
Sambo. Now none of the men ventured upon this, for when he first joined,
Sam had fought two or three desperate battles on this ground, and his
great strength and the insensibility of his head to blows had invariably
given him the victory. But, treated with what he conceived proper respect,
Sam was one of the best-tempered and best-natured fellows in the regiment;
and he himself, when he once cooled down, was perfectly ready to join in
the laugh against himself, even after he had been most put out by a joke.

The day before the regiment was to embark, the officers gave a lawn party;
a large number of ladies were present, and the band was, of course, to
play. The piece which the bandmaster had selected for the commencement
began with four distinct beats of the big drum. Just before it began,
Captain Manley saw Tom and Peter, who with some of the other boys had
brought the music-stands into the ground, with their faces bright with
anticipated fun.

"What is the joke, boys?" he asked good-humoredly, as he passed them.

"I can't tell you, sir," Tom said; "but if you walk up close to the band,
and watch Sam's face when he begins, you will be amused, I think."

"Those are regular young pickles," Captain Manley said to the lady he was
walking with; "they are Etonians who have run away from home, and are up
to all kinds of mischief, but are the pluckiest and most straightforward
youngsters imaginable. I have no doubt that they are up to some trick with
our black drummer."

On their way to where the band was preparing to play, Captain Manley said
a word or two to several of the other officers, consequently there was
quite a little party standing watching the band when their leader lifted
his baton for the overture to begin.

There was nothing that Sam liked better than for the big drum to commence,
and with his head thrown well back and an air of extreme importance, he
lifted his arm and brought it down with what should have been a sounding
blow upon the drum. To his astonishment and to the surprise of all the
band, no deep boom was heard, only a low muffled sound. Mechanically Sam
raised his other arm and let it fall with a similar result. Sam looked a
picture of utter astonishment and dismay, with his eyes opened to their
fullest, and he gave vent to a loud cry, which completed the effect
produced by his face, and set most of those looking on, and even the band
themselves, into a roar of laughter. Sam now examined his sticks, they
appeared all right to the eye, but directly he felt them his astonishment
was turned into rage. They were perfectly soft. Taking out his knife he
cut them open, and found that the balls were merely filled with a wad of
soft cotton, the necessary weight being given by pieces of lead fastened
round the end of the stick inside the ball with waxed thread.

Sam was too enraged to say more than his usual exclamation of
astonishment, "Golly!" and he held out his drumsticks to be examined with
the face of a black statue of surprise.

Even the band-master was obliged to laugh as he took the sticks from Sam's
hand to examine them.

"These are not your sticks at all, Sam," he said, looking closely at them.
"Here, boy," he called to Tom, who might have been detected from the fact
of his being the only person present with a serious face, "run to the
band-room and see if you can find the sticks."

In a few minutes Tom returned with the real drumsticks, which, he said
truly, he had found on the shelf where they were usually kept. After that
things went on as usual; Sam played with a sulky fury. His dignity was
injured, and he declared over and over again that if he could "find de
rascal who did it, by jingo, I pound him to squash!" and there was no
doubt from his look that he thoroughly meant what he said. However, no
inquiries could bring to light the author of the trick.

CHAPTER V. — OVERBOARD.

There were no lighter hearts than those of Tom and Peter Scudamore on
board the transport "Nancy," as, among the hearty cheers of the troops on
board, and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs from friends who had come
out in small boats to say good-bye for the last time, she weighed anchor,
and set sail in company with some ten or twelve other transports, and
under convoy of two ships of war. It would be difficult to imagine a
prettier scene. The guns fired, the bands of the various regiments played,
and the white sails opened out bright in the sun as the sailors swarmed
into the rigging, anxious to outvie each other. Even the soldiers pulled
and hauled at the ropes, and ran round with the capstan bars to get the
anchors apeak. Tom and Peter, of course, had, like the other boys, got
very much in the way in their desire to assist, and, having been once or
twice knocked over by the rush of men coming along with ropes, they wisely
gave it up, and leaned over the side to enjoy the scene.

"This is splendid, Tom, isn't it?"

"Glorious, Peter; but it's blowing pretty strong. I am afraid that we
sha'n't find it quite so glorious when we get out of the shelter of the
island."

Peter laughed. "No; I suppose we sha'n't all look as jolly as we do now by
night-time. However, the wind is nor'-westerly, which will help us along
nicely, if, as I heard one of the sailors say just now, it does not go
round to the south."

"Bugler, sound companies one, two, and three to breakfast."

The order interrupted the conversation, and, for the next hour, the boys
had little time for talk. Half the regiment was on board the "Nancy," and,
after breakfast, the men were divided into three watches, of which one was
always to be on deck, for the ship was very crowded, and there was
scarcely room for all the men to be below together. The boys were in the
same watch, for the day previous to starting Tom had been appointed bugler
to the 2d Company, Peter to the 3d. The 1st Company, or Grenadiers, were
in the watch with the band, the 2d and 3d Companies were together, and the
4th and 5th.

Tom was very ill for the first two days of the voyage, while Peter did not
feel the slightest effects from the motion. Upon the third day the wind
dropped suddenly, and the vessels rolled heavily in the swell, with their
sails flapping against the masts. Tom came up that morning upon deck
feeling quite well again, and the boys were immensely amused at seeing the
attempts of the soldiers to move about, the sudden rushes, and the heavy
falls. A parade had been ordered to take place; but as no one could have
stood steady without holding on, it was abandoned as impossible. The men
sat about under the bulwarks, and a few amused themselves and the rest by
trying to play various games, such as laying a penny on the deck, and
seeing which would pitch another to lay nearest to it, from a distance of
five yards. The difficulty of balancing oneself in a heavily rolling
vessel, and of pitching a penny with any degree of accuracy, is great, and
the manner in which the coins, instead of coming down flat and remaining
there, rolled away into the scuppers, the throwers not unfrequently
following them, produced fits of laughter.

Tom was still feeling weak from his two days' illness, and was not
disposed actively to enter into the fun; but Peter enjoyed the heavy
rolling, and was all over the ship. Presently he saw Sam, the black
drummer, sitting in a dark corner below quietly asleep; his cap was beside
him, and the idea at once occurred to Peter that here was a great
opportunity for a joke. He made his way to the caboose, and begged the
cook to give him a handful of flour. The cook at first refused, but was
presently coaxed into doing so, and Peter stole to where Sam was asleep,
and put the flour into his cap, relying that, in the darkness, Sam would
put it on without noticing it. Then, going up to the deck above, Peter put
his head down the hatchway, and shouted loudly, "Sam!"

The negro woke at the sound of his name. "What is it?" he asked. Receiving
no reply, he got on to his feet, muttering, "Some one call Sam, that for
certain, can't do without Sam, always want here, want there. I go up and
see."

So saying, he put on his cap, and made his way up to the upper deck. As he
stood at the hatchway and looked round, there was, first a titter, and
then a roar of laughter from the men sitting or standing along by the
bulwarks. In putting on his cap some of the flour had fallen out, and had
streaked his face with white. Sam was utterly unconscious that he was the
object of the laughter, and said to one of the men nearest to him, "Who
call Sam?"

The man could not reply, but Tom, who was sitting close by, said, "It was
no one here, Sam, it must have been the bandmaster; there he is, close to
the quarter-deck."

Sam made his way along towards the point indicated, and as he did so some
of the officers upon the quarter-deck caught sight of him. "Just look at
Sambo," Carruthers exclaimed, "somebody has been larking with him again.
Look how all the men are laughing, and he evidently has no suspicion of
the figure he is."

The sergeant, who, the bandmaster having remained at the depôt, was now
acting as chief of the band, did not see Sam until the latter was close to
him. "You want me, sergeant?"

Sergeant Wilson looked up, and was astonished.

"What on earth have you been doing to yourself, Sam?" he asked.

"Me been having little nap down below," Sam said.

"Yes; but your face, man. What have you been doing to your face?"

Sam, in his turn, looked astonished. "Nothing whatsomeber, sargeant."

"Take off your cap, man, and look inside it." Sam did as ordered; and as
he removed the cap, and the powder fell from it all over his face and
shoulders, there was a perfect shout of laughter from the soldiers and
crew, who had been looking on, and the officers, looking down from the
rail of the quarter-deck, retired to laugh unnoticed.

The astonishment and rage of Sam were unbounded, and he gave a perfect
yell of surprise and fury. He stamped wildly for a minute or two, and
then, with a sudden movement rushed up on to the quarter-deck with his cap
in his hand. The colonel, who was holding on by the shrouds, and talking
with the major, in ignorance of what was going on, was perfectly astounded
at this sudden vision of the irate negro, and neither he nor the major
could restrain their laughter.

"Scuse me, colonel, sah, for de liberty," Sam burst out; "but look at me,
sah; is dis right, sah, is it right to make joke like dis on de man dat
play de big drum of de regiment?"

"No, no, Sam; not at all right," the colonel said, with difficulty. "If
you report who has played the trick upon you, I shall speak to him very
seriously; but, Sam, I should have thought that you were quite big enough
to take the matter in your own hands."

"Me big enough, Massah Colonel, me plenty big; but me not able to find
him."

"Well, Sam, it is carrying a joke too far; still, it is only a trick off
duty, and I am afraid that it is beyond my power to interfere."

Sam thought for a moment, and, having by this time cooled down from his
first paroxysm of rage, he said, "Beg pardon, massa, you quite right, no
business of any one but Sam; but Sam too angry to 'top to think. Scuse
liberty, colonel," and Sam retired from the quarter-deck, and made a bolt
below down the nearest hatchway, when he plunged his head into a bucket of
water, and soon restored it to its usual ebony hue.

Then he went to the cook and tried to find out to whom he had given flour,
but the cook replied at once, "Lor, I've given flour to the men of each
mess to make puddings of, about thirty of them," and Sam felt as far off
as ever.

Presently, however, a big sailor began to make fun of him, and Sam
retorted by knocking him down, after which there was a regular fight,
which was carried on under the greatest difficulty, owing to the rolling
of the ship. At last Sambo got the best of it, and this restored him so
thoroughly to a good temper that he was able to join in the laugh at
himself, reserving, however, his right to "knock de rascal who did it into
a squash."

The following day the weather changed, a wind sprang up nearly from the
north, which increased rapidly, until toward afternoon it was blowing half
a gale, before which the whole fleet, with their main and topsails set,
ran southward at great speed. A heavy cross sea was running, the wares
raised by the gale clashing with the heavy swell previously rolling in
from the westward, and so violent and sudden were the lurches and rolls of
the "Nancy" that the master feared that her masts would go.

"How tremendously she rolls, Tom."

"Tremendously; the deck seems almost upright, and the water right under
our feet each time she goes over. She feels as if she were going to turn
topsy-turvy each roll. It's bad enough on deck; but it will be worse down
below."

"A great deal worse, Peter, it's nearly dark already; it will strike eight
bells in a minute or two, and then we shall have to go down. There's no
danger, of course, of the ship turning over, but it won't be pleasant down
below. Look out, Peter!"

The exclamation was caused by an awful crash. The ship had given a
tremendous lurch, when the long-boat, which was stowed amidships, suddenly
tore away from its fastenings and came crashing down. It passed within
three feet of where the boys were sitting, and completely tore away the
bulwark, leaving a great gap in the side, where it had passed through.
"Look, Tom, Sam's overboard!" Peter exclaimed.

Sam had been sitting on the bulwark, a few feet from them, holding on by a
shroud, when the boat came down upon him; with a cry he had let go of the
shroud and started back, falling into the water just as the boat struck
the bulwark. "There he is, Tom," Peter said, as he saw the black only a
few yards from the side. "He is hurt, come on," catching up the end of a
long rope coiled up on the deck close to their feet, the boys jumped
overboard together. A dozen strokes took them up to Sam; but the black
hull of the ship had already glanced past them. They could hear loud
shouts, but could not distinguish a word.

"Quick, round him, Peter!" and, in a moment, the boys twisted the rope
round the body of the black, and knotted it just as the drag of the ship
tightened it. Thus Sam's safety was secured, but the strain was so
tremendous as they tore through the water, that it was impossible for the
boys to hold on, and, in a moment, they were torn from their hold.

"All right, Peter," Tom said cheerily, as they dashed the water from their
eyes, "there is the boat."

The remains of the boat were not ten yards distant, and in a few strokes
they had gained it. It was stove in and broken, but still held together,
floating on a level with the water's edge. With some trouble the boys got
inside her, and sat down on the bottom, so that their heads were just out
of water.

Then they had time to look round. The ship was already disappearing in the
gathering darkness.

"This boat will soon go to pieces, Tom," was Peter's first remark.

"I expect it will, Peter; but we must stick to its pieces. We had better
get off our boots. The water is pretty warm, that's one comfort."

"Do you think the ship will come back for us, Tom?"

"I don't think she can, Peter; at any rate, it is certain she can't find
us, it would take a long time to bring her round, and then, you see, she
could not sail straight back against the wind."

"Look here, Tom, I remember when I climbed up to look into the boats
yesterday that there were some little casks lashed under the seats, and a
sailor told me they were always kept full of water in case the boats were
wanted suddenly. If they are still there we might empty them out, and they
could keep us afloat any time."

"Hurrah! Peter, capital, let's see."

To their great delight the boys found four small water-kegs fastened under
the seats. Three of these they emptied, and fastening one of them to that
which they had left full, and then each taking hold of one of the slings
which were fastened to the kegs for convenience of carriage, they waited
quietly. In less than ten minutes from the time when they first gained
their frail refuge, a great wave broke just upon them, and completely
smashed up the remains of the boat. They had cut off some rope from the
mast, which they found with its sail furled ready for use in the boat, and
now roughly lashed themselves together, face to face, so that they had a
keg on each side. They had also fastened a long piece of rope to the other
kegs, so that they would float near them.

It was a long and terrible night for them, generally their heads and
chests were well above the water, but at times a wave would break with its
white crest, and, for a time, the foam would be over their heads.
Fortunately the water was warm, and the wind fell a good deal. The boys
talked occasionally to each other, and kept up each other's courage. Once
or twice, in spite of the heavy sea, they were so much overcome with
exhaustion that they dozed uneasily for a while, with their heads upon
each other's shoulders, and great was their feeling of relief and pleasure
when morning began to break.

"It is going to be a splendid day, Peter, and the wind is dropping fast."

"Look, Tom," Peter said, "there are some of the planks of the boat jammed
in with the kegs."

It was as Peter said; the two kegs, one empty and the other full, were
floating about ten yards off, at the length of the rope by which they were
attached to the boys, while with them was a confused mass of wreckage of
the boat.

"That is capital, Peter, we will see if we can't make a raft presently."

As the sun rose and warmed the air, the boys strength and spirits revived,
and in a few hours they were so refreshed that they determined to set
about their raft. The wind had now entirely dropped, the waves were still
very high, but they came in long, smooth, regular swells, over which they
rose and fell almost imperceptibly.

"They must be rolling a good deal more in the 'Nancy' than we are here,
Peter. Now, the first thing is to have a drink. What a blessing it is we
have water." With their knives they soon got the bung out of the
water-keg, and each took a long drink, and then carefully closed it up
again.

"There, Peter, we have drunk as much as we wanted this time; but we must
be careful, there is no saying how long we may be before we are picked up.
Hurrah, Peter, here are the masts and sails, so we shall have plenty of
cord."

It took the boys nearly three hours to complete their task to their
satisfaction. When it was concluded they had the three empty kegs lashed
in a triangle about five feet apart, while two planks crossing the
triangle, assisted to keep all firm and tight; floating in the center of
the triangle was the keg of water. "There, I don't think we can improve
that, Peter," Tom said at last, "now, let us get on and try it." They did
so, and, to their great delight, found that it floated a few inches above
water. "We may as well get the masts on board, Peter, and let the sails
tow alongside. They may come in useful; and now the first thing is to dry
ourselves and our clothes."

The clothes were soon spread out to dry, and the boys luxuriated in the
warmth of the sun.

"What great, smooth waves these are, Tom, sometimes we are down in a
valley which runs miles long, and then we are up on a hill."

"Here we lay, all the day, in the bay of Biscay, oh!" Tom laughed. "I only
hope that the wished-for morrow may bring the sail in sight, Peter.
However, we can hold on for a few days, I suppose. That is a four-gallon
keg, so that we have got a quart of water each for eight days, and hunger
isn't so bad to bear as thirst. We have pretty well done for our uniforms,
our bugles are the only things that have not suffered."

For the boys' companies being on deck at the time of the accident, they
both had their bugles on when they jumped overboard.

"Our last upset was when that bargee canted us over at Eton, rather a
different business that, Peter."

"My shirt is not dry yet, Tom; but I shall put it on again, for the sun is
too hot to be pleasant."

Tom followed Peter's example.

"Do you think, Tom, that we had better try to get up a sort of sail and
make for land, or remain where we are?"

"Remain where we are, Peter, I should say. I suppose we must be a hundred
miles from the French coast, and even if the wind blew fair we should be a
long time getting there, and with the certainty of a prison when we
arrived. Still, if there were a strong west wind, I suppose it would be
our best way; as it is we have nothing to do but to wait quietly, and hope
for a ship. We are in the right line, and there must be lots of vessels on
their way, besides those which sailed with us, for Portsmouth. So we must
keep watch and watch. Now, Peter, you lie down on that plank, it is just
about long enough, you shall have two hours' sleep, and then I'll have
two, after that we will have four hours each."

"How are we to count time?" Peter said laughing.

"I never thought of that," Tom said, looking at his watch. "Of course it
has stopped. We must guess as near as we can; at any rate, you go to sleep
first, and, when I am too sleepy to keep watch any longer, I will wake you
up."

So passed that day and the next night. A light breeze sprung up from the
southwest, and the sun again shone out brightly.

"I feel as if I wanted breakfast horribly," Peter said, with an attempt at
a smile. "Do you think that there is any possibility of catching
anything?"

"We have nothing to make hooks with, Peter, and nothing to bait them with
if we had."

"There are lots of tiny fish swimming all about, Tom, if we could but
catch them."

Tom was silent for awhile; then he said, "Look here, Peter. Let us cut a
piece off the sail about five feet long, and say three feet wide, double
it longways, and sew up the ends so as to make a bag; we can unravel some
string, and make holes with our knives. Then we can sink it down two or
three feet, and watch it; and when we see that some little fish have got
in it, we can draw it up very gently, and, by raising it gradually from
the sea, the water will run out, and we shall catch the fish."

Peter agreed that at any rate it was worth trying; for, even if it did not
succeed, it was better for them to be doing something than sitting idle.
The sail and the floating wreckage were pulled alongside, and the boys set
to work. In three hours a large and shallow bag was made, with some
improvements upon Tom's original plan. The mouth was kept open by two
crossed pieces of wood, and four cords from the corners were attached to
the end of the oar which formed their fishing-rod. At last it was
finished, and the bag lowered.

To the horror of the boys, it was discovered that it would not sink. They
were ready to cry with vexation, for the want of food had made them feel
faint and weak.

"What have we got that is heavy?" Tom asked in despair.

"I have got fourpence in halfpence, Tom, and there are our knives and
watches."

Their pockets were ransacked, and the halfpence, knives, and watches were
placed in the bottom of the bag and lowered. Still the wood-work kept
afloat.

"There are the bugles, Tom," Peter cried in delight. These had been
fastened to the raft, and were now hastily untied and placed in the canvas
bag.

It sank now, and the boys lowered it five or six feet, so that they could
partly see into it. "There are lots of little fish swimming about, Tom,"
Peter said in a whisper. "Some are almost as long as one's hand. Do you
think that they will go in, Tom?"

"I hope the glitter of the bugles and watches will attract them, Peter."

"There, Tom, there—I saw a whole swarm of little ones go in."

"Wait a minute or two, Peter, to let them get well down, and then draw up
as quietly as possible."

Very cautiously the boys raised the point of their rod until the top of
the square-mouthed bag was level with the surface; then they brought it
close to them and looked in, and as they did so gave a simultaneous cheer.
There, in the bottom of the canvas, two feet below them, were a number of
little fish moving about. Raising the rod still higher, they gradually
lifted the net out of the sea, the water running quickly off as they did
so, and then they proceeded to examine their prize.

"We will take out one and one, Peter; give them a nip as you take them up,
that will kill them." There were two fish of about three inches long,
another three or four of two inches, and some thirty or forty the size of
minnows. It was scarcely more than a mouthful each, but it was a stay for
a moment to their stomachs, and no one ever said a thanksgiving with
deeper feeling and heartiness than did the boys when they had emptied
their canvas net.

"We need not be anxious about food now, Peter; if we can catch these in
five minutes, we can get enough each day to satisfy us. They quench the
thirst too. We must limit ourselves to half a pint of water a day, and we
can hold on for a fortnight. We are safe to be picked up before that."

All the afternoon and evening the boys continued to let down and draw up
their net, sometimes bringing in only a few tiny fish, sometimes getting
half a dozen of the larger kind. By nightfall they had satisfied the
cravings of hunger, and felt stronger and better. One or two sails had
been seen during the day, but always at such distances that it was evident
at once that they could not pass within hail. That night, fatigued with
their exertions, both laid down and went to sleep until morning, and slept
more comfortably than before; for they had fastened a piece of the sail
tightly on the top of the raft, and lay softly suspended in that, instead
of being balanced upon a narrow and uncomfortable plank. They felt new
creatures when they woke, pulled up their net, had a mouthful of raw fish,
took off their clothes, and had a swim, and then set to earnestly to fish.
The sun was brighter, and the fish in consequence kept deeper than upon
the preceding day; still by evening they had caught enough to take the
edge off, if not to satisfy, their hunger. The fishing, however, during
the last hours of daylight was altogether neglected, for behind them they
could see a sail, which appeared as if it might possibly come close enough
to observe them. There was still the long, steady swell coming in from the
Atlantic, and a light breeze was blowing from the north. The boys had been
so intent upon their fishing, that they had not noticed her until she was
within nine or ten miles of them. "She will not be up for an hour and a
half, Peter," Tom said, "and the sun will be down long before that. I fear
that the chance of their seeing us is very small indeed. However, we will
try. Let us get the net out of the water, and hold it and the oar up. It
is possible that some one may see the canvas with a telescope before the
sun goes down. Take the things out of the net."

The oar with the canvas bag was elevated, and the boys anxiously watched
the course of the vessel. She was a large ship, but they could only see
her when they rose upon the top of the long smooth waves. "I should think
that she will pass within a mile of us, Peter," Tom said, after half an
hour's watching, "but I fear that she will not be much closer. How
unfortunate she had not come along an hour earlier. She would have been
sure to see us if it had been daylight. I don't think that there is much
chance now, for there is no moon. However, thank God, we can hold on very
well now, and next time we may have better luck."

The sun had set more than half an hour before the ship came abreast of
them. They had evidently not been seen.

"Now, Peter," Tom said, "let us both hallo together; the wind is very
light, and it is just possible they may hear us."

Again and again the boys shouted, but the ship sailed steadily on. Peter
dashed the tears aside, and Tom said, with a quiver in his voice, "Never
mind, Peter; better luck next time, old boy. God has been so good to us,
that I feel quite confident we shall be saved."

"So do I, Tom," Peter said. "It was only a disappointment for a minute. We
may as well put the oar down, for my arm and back ache holding it."

"Mind how you do it, Peter. If we let the end go through the canvas, we
shall lose our watches and bugles, and then we shall not be able to fish."

"Oh, Tom, the bugles!"

"What, Peter?" Tom said, astonished.

"We can make them hear, Tom, don't you see?"

"Hurrah, Peter! so we can. What a fool I was to forget it!"

In a moment the bugles rang out the assembly across the water. Again and
again the sharp, clear sound rose on the quiet evening air.

"Look, Peter, there are men going up the rigging to look round. Sound
again!"

Again and again they sounded the call, and then they saw the ship's head
come round, and her bow put towards them, and then they fell on their
knees and thanked God that they were saved.

In ten minutes the ship was close to them, thrown up into the wind, a boat
was lowered, and in another minute or two was alongside.

"Hallo!" the officer in charge exclaimed, "two boys, all alone. Here, help
them in, lads—that's it; now pull for the ship. Here, boys, take a
little brandy from this flask. How long have you been on that raft?"

"It is three days since we went overboard, sir; but we were in the water
for about eighteen hours before we made the raft."

Tom and Peter drank a little brandy, and felt better for it; but they were
weaker than they thought, for they had to be helped up the side of the
ship. A number of officers were grouped round the gangway, and the boys
saw that they were on board a vessel of war.

"Only these boys?" asked the captain in surprise of the officer who had
brought them on board.

"That is all, sir."

"Doctor, you had better see to them," the captain said. "If they are
strong enough to talk, after they have had some soup, let them come to my
cabin; if not, let them turn in in the sick bay, and I will see them in
the morning. One question though, boys. Are there any others about—any
one for me to look for or pick up?"

"No one else, sir," Tom said, and then followed the doctor aft. A basin of
soup and a glass of sherry did wonders for the boys, and in an hour they
proceeded to the captain's cabin, dressed in clothes which the doctor had
borrowed from two of the midshipmen for them, for their own could never be
worn again; indeed, they had not brought their jackets from the raft,
those garments having shrunk so from the water, that the boys had not been
able to put them on again, after first taking them off to dry.

The doctor accompanied them, and in the captain's cabin they found the
first lieutenant, who had been in charge of the boat which picked them up.

"I am glad to see you looking so much better," the captain said as they
entered. "Sit down. Do you know," he went on with a smile, "I do not think
that any of us would have slept had you not recovered sufficiently to tell
your story to-night. We have been puzzling over it in vain. How you two
boys came to be adrift alone on a raft, made up of three water-kegs, as
Mr. Armstrong tells me, and how you came to have two bugles with you on
the raft, is altogether beyond us."

"The last matter is easily explained, sir," Tom said. "My brother and
myself are buglers in H.M.'s Regiment of Norfolk Rangers, and as we were
on duty when we went overboard, we had our bugles slung over our
shoulders."

"Buglers!" the captain said in surprise. "Why from your appearance and
mode of expressing yourselves, I take you to be gentlemen's sons."

"So we are, sir," Tom said quietly, "and I hope gentlemen—at any
rate we have been Etonians. But we have lost our father, and are now
buglers in the Rangers."

"Well, lads," the captain said after a pause, "and now tell us how you
came upon this little raft?"

Tom related modestly the story of their going overboard from the "Nancy,"
of the formation of the raft, and of their after proceedings. Their
hearers were greatly astonished at the story; and the captain said, "Young
gentlemen, you have done a very gallant action, and have behaved with a
coolness and bravery which would have done credit to old sailors. Had your
father been alive he might have been proud indeed of you. I should be
proud had you been my sons. If you are disposed to change services I will
write directly we reach the Tagus to obtain your discharge, and will give
you midshipmen's berths on board this ship. Don't answer now; you can
think it over by the time we reach Portugal. I will not detain you now; a
night's rest will set you up. Mr. Armstrong will introduce you to the
midshipmen to-morrow; you are passengers here now, and will mess with
them. Good-night."

It was not many minutes before the boys were asleep in their hammocks. If
people's ears really tingle when they are being spoken about, Tom and
Peter would have had but little sleep that night. The first lieutenant
related the circumstances to the other lieutenants; the second lieutenant,
whose watch it was, told the gunner, who related it to the petty officers;
the doctor told his mates, who retailed the story to the midshipmen; and
so gradually it went over the whole ship, and officers and men agreed that
it was one of the pluckiest and coolest things ever done.

The boys slept until nearly breakfast time, and were just dressed when Mr.
Armstrong came for them and took them to the midshipmen's berth, where
they were received with a warmth and heartiness which quite surprised
them. The midshipmen and mates pressed forward to shake hands with them,
and the stiflingly close little cock-pit was the scene of an ovation. The
boys were quite glad when the handshaking was over, and they sat down to
the rough meal which was then usual among midshipmen. As the vessel had
only left England four days before, the fare was better than it would have
been a week later, for there was butter, cold ham and tongue upon the
table. After breakfast they were asked to tell the story over again, and
this they did with great modesty. Many questions were asked, and it was
generally regretted that they were not sailors. Upon going up on deck
there was quite an excitement among the sailors to get a look at them, and
the gunner and other petty officers came up and shook hands with them
heartily, and the boys wished from the depths of their hearts that people
would not make such a fuss about nothing; for, as Tom said to Peter, "Of
course we should not have jumped overboard if we had thought that we could
not have kept hold of the rope."

That day they dined in the cabin with the captain, who, after the officers
present had withdrawn, asked them if they would tell him about their past
lives. This the boys did frankly, and took the opportunity of explaining
that they had chosen the army because the enemies' fleet having been
destroyed, there was less chance of active service in the navy than with
the army just starting for Lisbon, and that their uncle having commanded
the regiment that they were in, they had entered it, and had received so
much kindness that they had fair reason to hope that they would eventually
obtain commissions. Hence, while thanking him most warmly for his offer,
they had decided to go on in the path that they had chosen.

The captain remarked that, after what they had said, although he should
have been glad to have them with him, he thought that they had decided
rightly.

The next morning, when the boys woke, they were surprised at the absence
of any motion of the vessel, and upon going on deck they found that they
were running up the Tagus, and that Lisbon was in sight.

CHAPTER VI. — PORTUGAL.

The boys were delighted with the appearance of the Tagus, covered as it
now was with a fleet of transports and merchantmen. As they were looking
at it, the officer commanding the marines on board, who had talked a good
deal to them upon the preceding day, came up to them. "I thought that you
would be in a fix about clothes, my lads," he said. "You could not very
well join in these midshipman's uniforms, so I set the tailor yesterday to
cut down a couple of spare suits of my corps. The buttons will not be
right, but you can easily alter that when you join. You had better go
below at once and see if the things fit pretty well. I have told the
tailor to take them to the cock-pit and if they do not fit they can alter
them at once."

Thanking the officer very much for his thoughtful kindness, and much
relieved in mind—for they had already been wondering what they
should do—the boys ran below, and found that the tailor had guessed
their sizes pretty correctly, aided as he had been by the trousers they
had worn when they came on board. A few alterations were necessary, and
these he promised to get finished in a couple of hours. They had scarcely
gone on deck again when the anchor was let fall, and a boat was lowered,
in order that the captain might proceed to shore with the despatches of
which he was the bearer.

Just as he was upon the point of leaving the deck, his eye fell upon the
boys. "I shall be back again in an hour or two," he said; "do not leave
until I return. I will find out where your regiment is, and if it has
marched I will give you a certificate of how I picked you up, otherwise
you may be stopped on the way, and get into a scrape as two boys who have
strayed away from their regiment."

So saying, the captain got into his boat and rowed to shore. It was one
o'clock before he returned. The boys had dinner with the gunroom officers,
then changed their dress, and had now the appearance of buglers in the
marines.

The captain at once sent for them. "Your regiment went on yesterday with
the rest of the division. It halts to-day ten miles out of the town. There
is the certificate I spoke of. Mr. Armstrong is just going off with two
boats' crew to assist in unloading stores; I have asked him to hand you
over to the charge of some officer going up with a convoy. And now
good-bye, lads. I wish you every luck, and hope that some day or other you
may win your epaulets."

With renewed thanks for his kindness, the boys went up on deck. There they
shook hands and said good-bye to all the officers and midshipmen. As they
were waiting while the boats were being lowered, two of the sailors went
aft to the captain, who had come up from below and was walking alone on
the quarter-deck, and, with a touch of the hat, the spokesman said, "Your
honor, we're come to ax as how, if your honor has no objection, we might
just give a parting cheer to those 'ere youngsters."

"Well, Jones," the captain said, smiling, "it's rather an unusual thing
for the crew of one of His Majesty's ships to cheer two young soldiers."

"It is unusual, your honor, mighty unusual, because soldiers ain't in
general of much account at sea; but you see, your honor, this ain't a
usual circumstance, nohow. These here boys, which ain't much more than
babbies, have done what there ain't many men, not even of those who are
born and bred to the sea, would have done; and we should just like to give
them a bit of a cheer for good luck."

"Very well, Jones, tell the men they can do as they like."

Accordingly, as the boys took their seats in the boat they were surprised
at seeing the crew clustering to the side of the ship, while some of the
men ran up the rigging.

"What can the men be up to?" Tom asked Mr. Armstrong in surprise.

The lieutenant smiled, for he knew what was coming.

"Sheer off, men," he said, and as he did so the boatswain of the ship gave
the word, "Now, lads, three cheers for them boys; may they have the luck
they deserve."

Three thundering cheers burst from the whole crew, the men in the boats
tossing their oars in the naval fashion of acknowledgment of the salute.
Tom and Peter, astonished and affected, stood up, took off their caps, and
waved their hands in thanks to the crowd of faces looking down upon them,
and then sat down again and wiped their eyes.

"Row on," the lieutenant said, and the oars fell in the water with a
splash; one more cheer arose, and then the boats rowed for the
landing-place. The boys were too much affected to look up or speak, until
they reached the shore, nor did they notice a boat which rowed past them
upon its way to the vessel they had left, just after they had started. It
contained an officer in a general's uniform. The boat steered to the
ship's side, and the officer ascended the ladder. The captain was on deck.
"Ah, Craufurd," he said, "this is an unexpected pleasure."

"I have just come back from my division for a few hours, Merivale; there
are a lot of stores which are essential, and some of my artillery is not
landed, so I thought I could hurry things up a bit. My spare charger, and
most of the chargers of my staff, are being landed, too; the ship they
came in was a day or two late; and as I had to confer with the Portuguese
Minister of War, I am killing a good many birds with one stone. I heard
you had just come in, and as I was on board the "Clio" about my charger, I
thought it would not be much out of my way to run round and shake hands
with you."

"I am very glad you did. Come into my cabin; you can spare time to take
some lunch, I hope."

While they were at lunch General Craufurd remarked, "So you have just lost
one of your officers, I see; promoted to another ship, eh?"

"Lost an officer!" Captain Merivale said in surprise. "No, not that I have
heard of. What makes you think so?"

"I thought so by the cheering the ship's crew gave that boat that left the
ship just before I came up. There was only a naval lieutenant in her, and
I supposed that he had just got his ship, and I thought by the heartiness
of the cheering what a good fellow he must be."

"But it was not the lieutenant the men were cheering," Captain Merivale
said with a smile.

"No!" General Craufurd said, surprised. "Why, there was no one else in the
boat. I looked attentively as I passed. There was only a lieutenant, a
midshipman who was steering, the men rowing, and two little marine
buglers, who had their handkerchiefs up to their faces. So you see I took
a very minute survey."

"You did indeed," Captain Merivale said, laughing. "Well, it was just
these little buglers that the crew of the ship were cheering."

General Craufurd looked up incredulously. "You're joking, Merivale. The
crew of His Majesty's frigate 'Latona' cheer two buglers of marines! No,
no, that won't do."

"It is a fact, though, Craufurd, unlikely as it seems, except that the
buglers belong to the Norfolk Rangers, and not to the Marines."

"The Rangers! They are in Hill's division. What is it all about? There
must be something very strange about it."

"There is indeed," Captain Merivale said, "very strange." And he then
related the whole story to his visitor.

"They are trumps indeed," the general said when the narrative was ended,
"and I am very glad that I happened to hear it. I will speak to Hill about
it, and will keep my eye upon them. Be assured they shall have their
epaulets as soon as possible—that is, if their conduct is at all
equal to their pluck. It is the least we can do when, as you say, they
have refused midshipmen's berths to stick to us. And now I must be off."

The boat landed General Craufurd at the same landing-place at which Tom
and Peter had disembarked half an hour before. Lieutenant Armstrong had
spoken a few words to the officer who was superintending the landing of
stores and horses, and he, being far too busy to stop to talk, briefly
said that the boys could go up to join their regiment with a convoy of
stores which would start that night.

After saying good-bye to their friend the lieutenant, the boys sat down
upon some bales, and were watching with much amusement and interest the
busy scene before them. As General Craufurd passed they rose and saluted.

"You are the boys from the 'Latona,' are you not?"

"Yes, sir," the boys answered in surprise.

"Can you ride?"

"Yes, sir."

"Follow me, then."

Much surprised, the boys followed the general until he made his way
through the confusion to a group of newly landed horses. Near them were a
couple of mounted Hussars, who, at the sight of the general, rode forward
with his charger. He made a sign to them to wait a moment, and walked up
to the men who were holding the newly landed horses.

"Which of you have got charge of two horses?"

Several of the men answered at once.

"Which of you are servants of officers on my staff?"

Three of those who had answered before replied now.

"Very well; just put saddles on to two of them. These lads will ride them;
they are going out with me at once; they will hand them over to your
masters."

In another five minutes Tom and Peter, to their surprise and delight, were
clattering along through the streets of Lisbon upon two first-rate horses
in company with the two Hussars, while, twenty lengths ahead, trotted
General Craufurd with two officers who had been down to Lisbon upon duty
similar to his own. Once outside the town, the general put his horse into
a gallop, and his followers of course did the same. Once or twice General
Craufurd glanced back to see how the boys rode, for a doubt had crossed
his mind as to whether he had been wise in putting them upon such valuable
horses, but when he saw that they were evidently accustomed to the work,
he paid no further attention to them.

The officers riding beside him, however, looked back several times.

"What luck we have, to be sure, Tom," Peter said, "and I can't understand
this a bit. How could the general know that we came from the 'Latona'; as
he evidently did, and by the way these officers have looked back twice, I
can't help thinking that he is talking about us."

Tom was as puzzled as Peter, but they soon forgot the subject, and engaged
in an animated conversation with the Hussars as to the situation and
position of the army, and the supposed strength and locality of the
French, concerning which they were, of course, in complete ignorance. An
hour and a half's sharp riding took them to Torres Vedras, a small town
which afterwards became celebrated for the tremendous lines which
Wellington erected there. The troops were encamped in its vicinity, the
general having his quarters at the house of the Alcalde, or Mayor.

"Your regiment is a mile and a half distant, lads," General Craufurd said
as they drew up at his quarters; "you will have difficulty in finding it
this evening. Sergeant, take these lads round to the house where my
orderlies are quartered, and give them some supper. They can join their
regiment in the morning. I have heard of you, lads, from Captain Merivale,
and shall mention your conduct to General Hill, and be assured I will keep
my eye upon you."

The boys were soon asleep upon a heap of straw, and at six next morning
were upon the road, having already had some coffee and bread for
breakfast. They had no difficulty in finding their way, for orderlies were
already galloping about, and the bugle calls came sharp upon their ears.
The division was to march at seven. The Rangers happened to be the first
in advance, so that they passed through the other regiments to arrive at
theirs.

The tents were down when they arrived, and packed in readiness for the
bullock carts which stood by. The boys paused a little distance off, and
looked on with delight at the busy scene. At a note on the bugle the tents
and other baggage were stowed in the carts, and then the men hitched on
their knapsacks, unpiled arms, and began to fall into rank.

No one noticed the boys as they passed between the groups and approached
the band, who were mustering by the colors, which were as usual placed in
front of the guard tent.

"There's Sambo," Tom said; "I am glad they got him safe on board."

The negro was the first to perceive the boys as they came close up to him.
As he saw them he gave a sudden start, his eyes opened wider and wider
until the whites showed all round, his teeth chattered, the shiny black of
his face turned to a sort of dirty gray, and he threw up his hands with a
loud cry, "oh, golly, here's dose boys' spirits!"

He stepped back, heedless that the big drum was behind him, and the next
moment went back with a crash into it, and remained there with his knees
doubled up and his face looking out between them, too frightened and
horror-struck to make the least movement to extricate himself.

For a moment no one noticed him, for at his cry they had all turned to the
boys, and stood as if petrified at seeing those whom they believed had
been drowned before their eyes a week before. The silence did not last
long, the boys bursting into a shout of laughter at Sam's appearance.

"Spirits! Sam," Tom said; "not by a long way yet, man. How are you all?
Come, get out of that, Sam and shake hands." And as the band with a shout
crowded round them, the boys helped Sam, who was trembling all over from
the shock and fright, from the drum.

For a moment the boys were quite confused and bewildered, for as they
hauled Sam to his feet their comrades of the band pressed round them
cheering, every one trying to shake them by the hand.

The news spread like wildfire among the troops, and there was at once a
general rush to the spot. The boys were seized in an instant, and each
raised on the shoulders of two of the grenadiers, and as they made their
appearance above the heads of the crowd a tremendous cheer broke from the
whole regiment.

"What can be the matter?" was the general exclamation of the colonel and
officers, who were just finishing their breakfasts in a cottage which
stood close behind the spot where their tents had been pitched in the rear
of the regiment. "What can be the matter?"—and as the cheering
continued there was a general rush to the door. There they stood
astonished at seeing the whole of the men clustered in one spot, shouting
and waving their caps.

"What can be the matter?" the colonel said again; "the whole regiment
seems to have gone mad."

"We shall know in a minute," Captain Manley said; "they are coming in this
direction."

"Look at that fellow Sambo," exclaimed Carruthers; "he looks madder than
all the rest."

In spite of the intense surprise which all were feeling, there was a
general laugh, for the black was performing antics like one possessed; his
cap was gone, he jumped, he yelled, he waved his arms, with a drumstick in
each hand, wildly over his head, he twisted round and round; he seemed
really out of his mind. Suddenly he left the crowd, and rushed on ahead at
full speed towards the group of officers, still leaping and yelling and
waving his drumsticks.

The officers instinctively drew together as he approached, for they
thought that the gigantic negro was really out of his mind. He stopped
suddenly as he came up to them, and tried to fall into his usual attitude
of attention.

"Oh, Massa Colonel," he said in hoarse, sobbing tones, "only to think,
only to think. Scuse Sam, sar, but Sam feel he's going to bust right up
wid joy, massa. Dat no matter, but only to think. Bress de Almighty, sar!
only to think!"

None of the officers spoke for a minute in answer to these disjointed
exclamations. They were affected at the man's great emotion. His black
skin was still strangely pale, his eyes were distended, his lips quivered,
tears were rolling down his cheeks, and his huge frame was shaken with
sobs.

"Calm yourself, Sam—be calm, my man," the colonel said kindly. "Try
and tell us what has happened. What are the men so excited about? What is
the matter with them?"

"Oh, Massa Colonel," Sam said, "me try tell you all 'boat it. Only to
think, sar, dose boys cum back again; dose boys, sar, bress dem, dat
jumped into de water and got drowned just to save dis poor niggar, sar.
Dey cum back again; only tink ob dat!"

The officers looked at one another in surprise.

"I do believe he means the Scudamores! colonel," Captain Manley exclaimed;
"but no, it is impossible, no one could have lived five minutes in that
sea, and we know that they could not have been picked up, for we were the
last ship in the fleet."

"Yes, yes, sar, dat's dem, dey cum back sure enuff," Sam said.

Then Carruthers exclaimed, "I do believe it is so; there are a couple of
boys on the shoulders of the men in the middle of the crowd. Yes, and, by
Jove, it is the Scudamores. Hurrah! I am glad."

There was a general exclamation of pleasure from the whole group, for the
regret for the boys, who had, as was believed, perished in the performance
of such a gallant action, had been general and sincere, and Captain Manley
lifted his cap and said reverently, "Thank God, these gallant lads are
saved;" and those around, although some of them were but little addicted
to prayer, repeated the words and imitated the action.

Carruthers would have stepped forward in his eagerness to greet his former
school-fellows, but Captain Manley laid his hand quietly on his shoulder
and said in a low tone, "Wait, Carruthers, let the colonel welcome them."

And now the crowd came up to the cottage, those in front falling back as
they approached, so as to let the grenadiers come forward with their
burden. The boys were lowered to the ground, and stood at once at
attention; their faces were both flushed with excitement, and their eyes
swollen with tears, so much were they both moved by the welcome which had
greeted them.

There was a dead silence for a moment, and then Colonel Tritton said in a
loud, clear voice, which was heard all over the throng of men, "I am glad,
lads, to see you back again. I never expected to have seen you again after
we caught a glimpse of you as the sea washed you away. You have seen how
the men have welcomed you, and I can assure you that the pleasure of the
officers that two such gallant young fellows should have been saved is no
less than that of your comrades. A braver act than that which you
performed was never done. I shake hands with you, and congratulate you in
the name of the whole regiment." And, suiting the action to the words,
Colonel Tritton stepped forward and shook the boys warmly by the hand,
amidst a great cheer upon the part of the whole regiment. Then he held up
his hand for silence again. "Bugler, sound the assembly; fall in, my lads,
or we shall be late. Come in here, boys; you can get something to eat, and
tell us in a few words how you were saved, for, even now that I see you it
seems almost impossible."

CHAPTER VII. — THE PASSAGE OF THE DUORO—TALAVERA.

Very severe was the drill and discipline, and not very abundant was the
food, and there was a general feeling of pleasure when, by the general
concentration of the army at Coimbra, it was evident that active
operations were about to commence. On the 5th of May 9000 Portuguese, 3000
Germans, and 13,000 British troops were assembled. Sir Arthur was already
there, and upon the 6th General Beresford marched with 10,000 men, and
orders were issued for the rest of the army to march out early the next
day.

The Norfolk Rangers were in high glee that night, and many were the tales
told by the old soldiers of former engagements in which they had taken
part. Next morning, at daybreak, the tents were struck, the baggage
packed, and the wagons loaded. The people of Coimbra came out in crowds to
see the troops march, and many were the blessings and good wishes poured
out as the long line wound through the streets of the city.

Hill's division was the last, and the rain was pouring down with great
force by the time they started. The march, however, was not a very long
one, for Beresford's division, which was to operate upon the Upper Duoro,
had a long distance to make, and it was necessary that all should be ready
for simultaneous action. For this purpose the army halted the next day,
and upon the 9th marched to Aveiro on the River Vonga. Here a large
flotilla of boats was found, and the Norfolk Rangers with two other
regiments were ordered to embark at once. The Portuguese fishermen entered
heart and soul into the business, and in perfect silence the little flats
were rowed up the lake of Ovar.

The soldiers were greatly crowded in the boats, and were glad, indeed,
when just as morning dawned they landed at the town of Ovar.

By this movement they were placed upon the right flank of Francheschi, the
general who commanded the advanced division of the French army. Soon after
they had landed the French were attacked in front, and finding their flank
turned, and the whole British force, which they had believed to be seven
days' march away, in their front, they fell back hastily.

To their great disappointment, the Rangers took no share in this the first
skirmish of the war. But Hill's orders were not to press on the enemy's
rear. Three days more of marching and skirmishing brought them close to
the Duoro on the evening of the 11th. The enemy crossed that evening and
destroyed the bridge, and during the night the British troops were all
brought up, and massed behind the hill called the Serra. This hill stood
upon a sharp elbow which the river makes just above the town of Oporto,
and the British were here completely hidden from Marshal Soult, who had no
idea that they were so close at hand. Indeed, knowing that the bridge was
broken and that all the boats had been carefully taken over to that side
of the river, the Marshal dreamt not that Sir Arthur would attempt to
cross, but imagined that he would take boats lower down near the mouth of
the river and there endeavor to cross. To prevent such an attempt Soult
had massed his army below Oporto.

The troops were ordered to pile arms, and eat their breakfast, but to keep
in position. "I wonder how we are to cross the river, Tom?" Peter said.
"It is three hundred yards across, with a rapid current, no man in the
world could swim that, and carry his musket and ammunition across."

"I expect Sir Arthur is reconnoitering, Peter; I saw him go up the hill to
that convent there; he must be able to see from there right over Oporto."

An hour passed, and then two or three officers were seen coming down from
the hill; one went up to General Hill, who happened at that moment to be
talking to Colonel Tritton. "You are to prepare to cross, sir, Colonel
Waters has discovered a small boat brought across by a Portuguese in the
night. They are going to cross to that great convent you see upon the
other side. They will bring back boats with them, and you will cross at
once, take possession of the convent, and hold it against any force that
may be brought against you until reinforcements arrive."

Very quickly were the orders passed, and with a smile of satisfaction the
men took their arms and fell in. They were moved near the river, and kept
under shelter of some houses.

"Keep near me," Colonel Tritton said to Tom and Peter, "I may want you to
carry messages, there will be no sounding of bugles to-day."

Keeping under the shade of some trees so that they could command a view of
the river without being seen from the opposite side, Colonel Tritton with
two of his officers and his two buglers, watched what was going on. A few
paces ahead of them were Generals Paget and Hill, like themselves,
watching the daring experiment. Behind, under shelter of the houses, were
the troops in dense masses. The Rangers, as the first regiment in General
Hill's division, were in front, and would naturally be the first to cross.
It was a most anxious moment, as Colonel Waters and two Portuguese pushed
the tiny boat from shore and pulled across stream. The bulk of the Serra
Hill hid the river at this point, and even the convent opposite, from the
sight of the French army formed up below the town, but there were no doubt
stragglers all over the city, and the whole baggage of the French army was
in retreat by the road to Valarga which ran at a short distance behind the
convent.

Most anxiously their eyes were strained upon the opposite bank, from which
they expected to see the flash of musketry, as the little boat neared the
convent. All, however, was as still as death. Behind them they heard a
rumble, and looking round saw eighteen guns on their way up the hill. From
this eminence they could command the ground around the Seminary, as the
convent across the water was called, and thus afford some aid to the
troops as they crossed.

There was a murmur of satisfaction as the boat neared the opposite shore,
and after lying still for a moment to reconnoiter the convent, pulled
boldly up to the landing-place, where its occupants disembarked and
entered the Seminary. Their absence was not long. In a few minutes they
reappeared with eight or ten men, and then at once entered and cast off
three large boats moored along side.

The boys could hardly repress a cheer as they saw them fairly under weigh.
An officer now left the side of the General, and came to Colonel Tritton,
"You will get your first company in readiness to embark, sir; do not let
them show themselves until the last moment."

Colonel Tritton joined his men. "Captain Manley, take your company
forward, when the first boat touches the shore embark. Let there be no
noise or confusion."

"God bless you, Peter," Tom said, as they separated; "your company won't
be many minutes after us;" for the bugler of the first company was ill,
and Tom was ordered to take his place.

As the boat touched the shore Captain Manley ordered the leading files of
his company to come from under cover and take their place in the boat.
Twenty-four men entered, and when the other boats were also full Captain
Manley took his place, followed by his bugler, and the boats pushed off
again.

There was a dead silence in the boat, broken only by the sound of the oars
as the Portuguese tugged manfully at them, each oar being double-banked by
a soldier. The rest sat with their muskets in their hands, their pouches
open ready for use, and their eyes fixed upon the shore. All was quiet,
and with a sigh of relief, and a hearty hurrah muttered under their
breath, the men leapt from the boat and ran up to the Seminary.

It was a large building with a flat roof, and the enclosure around it was
surrounded by a high wall which swept round to the water's edge on either
side. The only entrance was through a stout gate studded with iron. This
was already closed and barred; the captain at once distributed his men at
the upper windows of the Seminary, with orders not to show themselves
until the alarm was given.

They had scarcely taken their places when they were joined by the
occupants of the second boat, while those of the third, in which General
Paget himself crossed, were but a minute or two later. Just as they
touched the shore, however, there was a sudden shout heard, this was
followed by others, and in five minutes a wild hubbub was heard in the
town. Drums beat to arms, and it was evident that the enemy were at last
awake to the fact that the British had effected a lodgment upon their side
of the stream.

"We shall have it hot presently," Captain Manley said to Tom. "They will
be a quarter of an hour before they can get round here, and we shall have
the three boats back by that time. The one we came in is half-way across
already."

Seven or eight minutes later a heavy column of men was seen pouring out of
the upper gate of the town. As they got into the open ground, they threw
out clouds of skirmishers, and pushed down towards the convent. A heavy
fire was at once opened upon them by the English guns upon the Serra Hill.
There was no longer any need for concealment. The soldiers in the convent
took their places at the windows, and as they did so could hear the loud
hurrahs of their comrades as they crowded down to the bank upon the other
side of the river to await their turn to embark. Before the enemy were
within musket-shot, three boat loads more had been landed, and there were,
therefore, 150 men now in the convent. From the gates of the city the
French artillery came pouring out, and, taking up a position upon an
eminence, opened fire upon the convent just as the infantry had got within
musket-range.

So suddenly did the noise of the enemy's cannonade, the crashing of the
balls against the thick walls of the Seminary, the rattle of the enemy's
musketry, and the louder roar of the muskets of the defenders, blended on
both sides with shouts and cheers, break out, that for a minute or two Tom
felt almost bewildered. He had no time, however, to think, for an officer
came up to Captain Manley. "The general is up on the roof; he wants a
bugler sent up to him."

Captain Manley nodded to Tom, who followed the aide-de-camp on to the
roof. Here he could see all that was passing, and an exciting sight it
was. Crowds of French soldiers were approaching the wall, keeping up a
tremendous musketry fire, whilst behind them three batteries of field-guns
were sending their messengers of death. From every upper window of the
convent the answering flashes came thick and fast, while overhead hummed
the shot from the British guns, on the Serra Hill. Oporto itself was in a
state of uproar. Drums were beating, trumpets sounding, bells clanging,
while from the house-tops the population, men and women, were waving their
handkerchiefs to the English, gesticulating and making all sorts of
pantomimic expression of joy.

Looking at the river behind, Tom saw with pleasure that some more boats
had been obtained, and that strong reinforcements would soon be across.
The whistling of the bullets and the hum of the round shot were incessant,
and Tom acknowledged to himself that he felt horribly uncomfortable—much
more uncomfortable than he had any idea that he should feel under fire.
Had he been actively engaged, he would have hardly experienced this
feeling; but to stand impassive under a heavy fire is trying to the nerves
of the oldest soldier. He was angry with himself that he was not more
indifferent to the whizzing of the balls; but the sensation of discomfort
under fire is beyond the control of the will, and it is no unusual thing
to see a young soldier who, later in the day, may display an almost
reckless courage, yet at first flinch whenever balls hiss close by him, in
spite of all his efforts to the contrary. Tom was able, however, to
control any outward manifestation of his feelings, and took his place a
few paces behind General Paget, who was standing with one of his officers
by his side, watching the force which, momentarily increasing, was, in
spite of the British fire, making its way onward towards the gate.

It was evident that the general considered the danger to be pressing, as
he once or twice looked back to see how quickly the reinforcements were
crossing the river. The first time that he did so, his eye fell on Tom.
"Get behind those big chimneys, lad. There is no use in exposing yourself
unnecessarily."

Tom obeyed the order with alacrity, and, once in shelter, was soon able to
bring his nerves under control, and to look round the corner of his
shelter without flinching when the bullets sang past. In five minutes
General Hill joined Paget on the roof, and just as he did so the latter
was severely wounded and fell.

Tom ran forward to assist him, and, kneeling beside him, partially
supported him until four men came up and carried him below. The position
of the little garrison was now very precarious, the artillery fire
concentrated upon them was heavy, and the French swarmed up to the wall,
which they in vain endeavored to climb. The English kept up a tremendous
fire upon them, cheering constantly as fresh reinforcements arrived, or as
the enemy was momentarily repulsed.

Tom had now lost all nervousness, and was standing eagerly watching the
fight, when a ball knocked his shako off. The general happened to turn
around at the moment. "That was a narrow escape," he said with a smile.
"What is your name, lad?"

"Scudamore, sir," Tom answered.

"Scudamore—Scudamore. Yes, I remember the name now. You are one of
the lads General Craufurd spoke to me about. I want to see you. Come to me
to-morrow with your brother. Go down now and join your company; I do not
want you here."

Tom gladly went down, for he longed to be doing something. He soon found
his company, and, taking up a firelock of one of the men who had fallen,
was soon hard at work loading and firing into the assailants. For an hour
the strife continued. Fortunately General Murray had found some boats
three miles higher up the stream, and had crossed, thus menacing the
enemy's line of retreat. Suddenly a great pealing of bells were heard in
Oporto, with shouting and cheering, and the house-tops were covered with
people waving their handkerchiefs. The French were evacuating the town.
The inhabitants at once took across some large barges to Villa Neva, a
suburb lying across the river and just below the Serra Hill. Here
Sherbrooke began to cross.

It was now the time for the English to take the offensive. There were now
three battalions in the seminary, and as the French drew sullenly off to
join the column now flowing steadily out from Oporto along the Valonga
road, the gates were thrown open, and the English passing out formed
outside the walls, and poured volley after volley into the retreating foe.
Had Murray fallen upon their flank, the disaster of the French would have
been complete; but this general feared that the enemy would turn upon him,
and destroy his division before assistance could arrive, and he therefore
remained inactive, and allowed the long column of fugitives to pass
unmolested.

For the next eight days the English army followed hotly in pursuit, and
several skirmishes occurred; but Soult effected a most masterly retreat,
saving his army, when it seemed upon the brink of destruction, by leaving
his guns and baggage behind him, and leading his men by paths over
mountains supposed to be impassable for any large body of men. He lost
altogether 6000 men in this short campaign. This included 3600 prisoners
either captured in action or left behind in the hospitals, and 1400
killed. The number of guns left behind was fifty-eight. The English had
only 300 killed and wounded.

Sir Arthur's plans for the invasion of Spain were not yet complete, and he
accordingly halted his army to await supplies and reinforcements. During
this time the young buglers had no opportunity of calling upon
Major-General Hill. The transport supplied by the Spanish Government had
failed grossly, and the troops were badly fed at a time when, taking long
marches, they most required support. The first day after they halted the
boys determined that they would, as soon as they were off duty, call upon
General Hill. While parade was going on, however, they saw the general
ride up to Colonel Tritton, and enter into conversation with him. The
bugler, who was standing near, was ordered to sound the call for the
officers to assemble in front; and when they did so, Colonel Tritton left
the general's side and spoke a few words with them. There was a short
conversation, and then the colonel rejoined the general's side, and the
officers returned to their places. The colonel now rode forward to the
center of the line, and said in loud tones, "Men, I have a piece of news
to tell you which I think that you will be glad to hear. Upon my arrival
at Lisbon I reported the gallant conduct of Tom and Peter Scudamore in
rescuing one of their comrades when washed overboard in the Bay of Biscay.
Captain Merivale, of the "Latona," also reported it, and General Hill,
when he heard the circumstances, was also good enough to send home a
report recommending them for promotion. He has received an answer from the
Commander-in-Chief announcing that they are both granted commissions in
this regiment as a reward for their act of distinguished gallantry. The
regiment is dismissed."

As the men fell out they gave a loud and general cheer, and Tom and Peter
were surrounded by their comrades, who shook them by the hand, and
congratulated them upon their promotion. The boys were too much surprised
and affected to speak, and they had scarcely recovered from their
bewilderment, when Carruthers came up to them, and led them to the
colonel. Here General Hill first, and then all the officers, warmly shook
hands with them. The boys were much touched by the warmth with which they
were received, and were soon hurried off to the tents of the officers.
Several of the ensigns were slight young men, and they insisted upon
rigging the boys out in uniform, and the boys had the less scruple in
accepting the kind offer, inasmuch as they expected every day to enter
Spain, when the baggage would be cut down to the smallest possible
proportion, and the officers as well as the men be obliged to leave almost
everything behind them. Sam was delighted at the promotion of his friends,
and asked to be appointed their servant, a request which was at once
acceded to. The regiment had now been three months in Spain, and the boys
had continued to work hard at Spanish, devoting several hours a day to its
study, and talking it whenever they could find an opportunity—no
difficult matter, as Portugal was full of Spanish who had crossed the
frontier to avoid the hated yoke of the French.

The delay in invading Spain was caused partly from want of transport, but
more by the utter incapacity of the Spanish Junta or government, and by
the arrogance and folly of Cuesta, the Spanish Commander-in-Chief, who was
always proposing impracticable schemes to Wellington, and, inflated with
Spanish pride and obstinacy, believed that his own worthless troops were
fully a match for the French, and was jealous in the highest degree of the
British general.

At last, on the 27th of June, the British army advanced. Scarcely had they
made a day's march, however, when the utter faithlessness of the Spaniards
became manifest. The provisions and transport promised were not
forthcoming, and from the very day of their advance the British were badly
fed, and indeed often not fed at all; and so great were their sufferings
during the campaign—sufferings caused by the heartlessness of the
people whom they had come to deliver from a foreign yoke, that the British
soldiers came to cherish a deep and bitter hatred against the Spanish; and
it was this intense feeling of animosity which had no little to do with
the cruel excesses of the English soldiery upon the capture of Burgos and
San Sebastian.

After many delays from these causes, the British army reached Oropesa upon
the 20th July, and there formed a junction with Cuesta's army. Upon the
22d the allied armies moved forward, and upon the same day the Spaniards
came in contact with the French, and should have inflicted a severe blow
upon them, but the ignorance and timidity of the Spanish generals enabled
the enemy to draw off and concentrate without loss.

The British troops had now been for many days upon half rations, and Sir
Arthur gave notice to the Junta, that unless his requisitions were
complied with, he should retire from Spain. Cuesta, however, believing
that the French were retreating in haste, pushed his army across the river
Alberche, with the vain idea of defeating them, and entering Madrid in
triumph. Sir Arthur, seeing the fatal consequences which would ensue, were
the Spaniards attacked alone, laid aside his previously-formed resolution,
and put his army in motion across the Alberche. The position of the allied
armies was now most dangerous—far more so, indeed, than the English
general supposed. Badly informed by the Spanish, he greatly underrated the
enemy's forces. Taking advantage of the delay caused by the want of
provisions and carriage, Soult, Victor, and Ney were marching their forces
from various points, and concentrating to crush the invading army. Upon
the 26th the French met the Spanish army. General Zayas, who commanded the
Spanish advance of 4000 infantry and 2000 cavalry, scarcely offered any
resistance, his men broke and fled in disorder, and the panic would have
spread to the whole Spanish army, had not General Albuquerque brought up
3000 more cavalry and held the French at bay, while Cuesta retreated in
great disorder. The Spanish loss by dispersion and flight was no less than
4000 men, and the whole army would have been broken up had not General
Sherbrooke advanced with his division, and placed it between the French
and the flying Spaniards.

The allies now recrossed the Alberche and took up a position to cover
Talavera. Sir Arthur chose a strong defensive position, as it was evident
that the Spanish were worse than useless in the open field. The Spaniards
were placed with their right resting upon Talavera, their left upon a
mound whereon a large field-redoubt was constructed. Their front was
covered by a convent, by ditches, stone walls, breastworks, and felled
trees; and thus, worthless as were the troops, they could scarcely be
driven from a position almost impregnable.

The line beyond the Spanish was continued by Campbell's division, next to
which came that of Sherbrooke, its left extending to a steep hill.
Mackenzie and Donkin had not yet fallen hack from the Alberche. Hill was
in rear. The British troops, including the German legion, were 19,000
strong, with thirty guns. The Spaniards had 33,000 men and seventy guns.
The Spanish contingent could, however, be in no way relied upon, and were,
indeed, never seriously engaged. The real battle was between the 19,000
British troops and 50,000 French. The French attacked the British outposts
with great impetuosity, and Mackenzie and Donkin were driven in with a
loss of 4000 men. The latter took up his position with his brigade on the
hill on Sherbrooke's left; the former took post with Campbell's division,
to which he belonged. The French cavalry now galloped up towards the
portion of the line held by the Spanish, and discharged their pistols at
them, whereupon 10,000 Spanish infantry and the whole of their artillery
broke and fled in wild confusion. For miles they continued their flight,
but in the evening the Spanish cavalry were sent round in pursuit, and
drove some 4000 of these cowards back to their lines. Seeing the wild
confusion which was raging on the allies' right, Victor resolved, although
evening was at hand, to make a sudden dash upon the hill upon their left,
which, held only by Donkin's brigade, was the key of the position. The
hill was very steep upon the front, or French side, while towards the rear
it sloped gradually. Ruffin's division was ordered to the attack, followed
by Villette in support, while Lapisse was ordered to engage the German
legion, which was on the left of Sherbrooke's division.

Hill's division was lying down behind the hill when Ruffin's troops
advanced to the attack. There was no expectation of an attack that
evening, and the woods and increasing darkness covered the movements of
the French troops. Weary and hungry, the English soldiers, disgusted at
the inhuman neglect of the Spaniards, and furious at their cowardice, were
chatting over the events of the day and discussing the chances, by no
means bright, of the expected battle to-morrow. All that day they had had
no food whatever save a small portion of grain, served out raw and
unground. Tom and Peter had been chatting with the officers, who were
grouped under a tree, when Sambo came up to them and beckoned them aside.

"Look here, Massa Tom, here six eggs; tree for you, tree for Massa Peter."

"Thank you, Sam, that is capital; but you know you will get into a row if
you get caught taking things."

"Me no take 'em, massa. Old hen give them to me."

Tom laughed.

"How was that, Sam?"

"Well, Massa, me saw her sitting on nest. Me went up and said to her,
'Give me some eggs, old girl.' She say 'Cluck.' I says, 'Cluck means yes,
I suppose?' She say 'Cluck' again. Clear 'nuff that, so me take eggs, eat
tree, bring six, young massa."

"I am afraid, Sam," Tom said, laughing, "your story would hardly save you
from the triangles, if you had been caught. However, as it is rude to
return a present, of course you cannot take them back to the hen. I
suppose they are raw?"

"Yes, massa; no good make fire; make hole bofe ends, suck 'em."

"All right, Sam; it is not the nicest way, but, under the circumstances,
perhaps it is the best; at any rate, I am too hungry to wait till we can
get a fire lighted."

So saying, the boys sucked the raw eggs, and then joined the men, when,
just as they did so, first a dropping rifle shot, and then a perfect roar
of musketry broke out upon the hill above them. It needed no order to be
given. The men fell into their places and prepared to climb the hill and
assist Donkin's brigade, which was evidently unable alone to resist the
attack. Knapsacks were thrown off, firelocks tightly grasped, and the
regiment impatiently awaited orders to advance. None were more impatient
than the colonel, who after a few minutes, seeing by the fire that the
English were falling back, and that the French had gained the crest of the
hill, waited no longer for orders, but gave the word for the regiment to
advance. They were but half way up the hill when General Hill himself
galloped down to meet them, and then turning, led the way beside Colonel
Tritton.

General Hill had had a narrow escape. Donkin had repulsed the French who
attacked him in front, but his force was insufficient to guard the whole
crest of the hill. Consequently, the enemy had come up round his flank,
and were now in actual possession of the crest. General Hill, ignorant of
this, had ridden with his brigade-major right into the midst of the French
before he found out his mistake. His brigade-major, Fordyce, was killed,
his own horse wounded, and his bridle seized by a French grenadier. He
had, however, broken away, and had ridden off under a storm of bullets.

With a cheer the Norfolk Rangers followed their gallant leader. They
reached the crest, poured a tremendous volley into the enemy, and charged
with the bayonet. The French, of whom but a small portion had as yet
gained the crest, were unable to resist the impetuous onslaught, and at
once gave way.

The Rangers were now joined by the 48th and the 29th, so that these, with
Donkin's brigade, formed a strong body of troops. The French, who had
fallen back, now united with their main body, and the attack was renewed
with all the force of Ruffin's division. The heavy mass pressed upwards,
in spite of the destructive fire of the British, and were within twenty
yards of the crest, when, with a hearty cheer, the English troops burst
upon them with the bayonet, and the French again fell back, broken and
disheartened.

This ended the fighting on the 27th of July. Long lines of bivouac fires
soon blazed upon either side. The wounded were carried down the hill to
the field-hospital, which had been erected under its cover, and the men,
eating their scanty supper, wrapped themselves in their great coats, and
were soon asleep. The officers chatted for a short time longer, but as all
were tired, and the next day was sure to be a severe one, they, too, soon
lay down by their fire.

When morning broke, it was seen that the enemy had massed a large force of
artillery upon a hill just opposite to the one held by the English. Soon
afterwards Ruffin's division, as before supported by Villette, advanced to
the attack, covered by the tremendous fire from his artillery. The British
had no adequate force of artillery to reply to the iron storm, and the
balls swept through their lines, mowing down their ranks, and causing
great loss. The regiments in reserve lay down to avoid the iron shower,
while the Rangers and 48th prepared to resist the French when they came
within fighting distance.

As their men approached the summit of the hill, the French artillery was
obliged to cease playing in that direction, and turned its attention to
the British center, while a fierce musketry contest took place between the
French and Hill and Donkin's men.

The ground was rough, and the troops on both sides, broken up into small
bodies, fought desperately. General Hill was wounded, and the British
troops fell fast. The French, however, suffered even more, and, as Hill
brought up his reserve, the English gained ground foot by foot, until they
drove them again down the steep side of the hill. As the French retired,
their artillery once more opened fire to cover their retreat.

A pause now ensued; the French in this brief contest had lost 1400 men,
and the British had suffered severely. The French then held a council of
war, and determined to attack along the whole line in force. Hours passed
away; the English munched their corn, smoked their pipes, and watched the
enemy scattered over the plain. The weather was very hot, and the men of
both sides went down to a little stream which divided their positions,
drank, and filled their water-bottles in perfect amity. Some of the
officers, who spoke French conversed with the French officers, exchanged
cigars for brandy, and joked and laughed as if they had been the best of
friends.

At one o'clock the French drums were heard to beat, and the men were soon
formed in order. Tom and Peter stood with a group of officers on the brow
of the hill. Nothing could be finer than the sight. Far away the view
stretched over the country, thickly wooded, and with château and
farm-houses scatted here and there. Through the trees the dense masses of
the French could be seen, as they moved in columns towards the positions
from which they were to attack. Upon an eminence, nearly opposite to their
position, the boys could see a long line of the French artillery. Far
away, to the right, rose the churches of Talavera, while behind the hill
were the British and Spanish cavalry, ready to charge should the French
endeavor to turn the British left by pushing round its foot. Fifty paces
from the officers of the Norfolk Rangers sat Sir Arthur Wellesley, on
horseback, watching attentively through a field-glass the movements of the
enemy, and at a short distance behind him were his staff. The British
troops were standing in easy order, a little behind the crest of the hill,
so as to be sheltered from the artillery fire with which the French were
sure to cover the advance of their column of attack.

"This is a grand sight, Peter," Tom said, "but I wish they would begin; it
makes one fidgety waiting for it."

Scarcely had Tom spoken when, as if in answer to his wish, a series of
jets of white smoke puffed out from the opposite hill, and two or three
seconds later came the thunder of eighty guns, and the whizzing sound of
as many balls. Instinctively the group drew back a pace, but it was not
upon them that this tremendous fire was opened. It was directed against
the right of the British line, and almost at the same moment a cloud of
skirmishers appeared among the trees, followed by the dark columns of
Sebastiani's division.

Upon these the English guns at once opened fire; but rushing forward with
their usual impetuosity, they cleared away the obstacles which had been
raised across the British front, and charged with fury against the British
position. Campbell's division, however, assisted by Mackenzie's brigade
and two Spanish battalions, stood firm, and driving back the skirmishers,
advanced in line, cheering loudly. The head of the French column withered
away under their tremendous fire, and, pushing forward, they overlapped
it, and drove them back with terrible loss, capturing ten guns. Then
Campbell prudently recalled his men to their first position, and the
British artillery, which had necessarily been silent while friend and foe
were mingled together, opened furiously upon the French as they tried to
re-form upon their supports. A Spanish cavalry regiment dashed down upon
their flank, and they retired again in great disorder.

Every incident of the fight could be seen from the British position on the
hill, and the troops almost held their breath with excitement as the
British lines clashed against the head of the French column, and a loud
shout of triumph burst out spontaneously as the French broke and fled.

But it was now the turn of the left. Already Villette's division, preceded
by the Grenadiers and supported by Ruffin's division, was advancing, and
the British cavalry were ordered to charge them. The ground was, however,
quite unfit for cavalry. Colonel Arentschild, a very experienced officer,
who commanded the German Hussars, drew up his regiment at the edge of a
deep cleft which crossed their front, and refused to take his men to
certain destruction. The 23d Dragoons, however, dashed into the ravine.
Men and horses rolled over in all directions; still, they got across, and,
charging furiously between the French infantry regiments, which poured in
a terrible fire, fell upon a brigade of Chasseurs in their rear. Victor
sent up his Polish lancers and Westphalian light horse to the assistance
of the Chasseurs, who already outnumbered the 23d, and this gallant
regiment was completely broken, the survivors escaping to the shelter of
Bassecourt's Spanish division, which lay beyond the hill, having lost 257
men and officers.

Tom and Peter did not see this disastrous affair, for on the approach of
the enemy's column they fell into their places in the ranks. It was,
however, in vain that the French tried to gain the crest of the hill,
their efforts at this point being indeed far more feeble than they had
been either in the morning or upon the previous night. It was in the
center that their great effort was made. Here Lapisse threw his division
against that of Sherbrooke, and, covered by his own artillery and by the
guns upon the hill, charged right up to the position. The British,
however, repulsed them, and the guards, carried away by the excitement of
the moment, followed them with reckless ardor. The French reserves of
infantry and cavalry came up, the artillery plied the British with shot
and shell, the fugitives rallied and again came to the attack, and the
Guards fell back in confusion. The Germans next to them, severely pressed,
began to waver, and for a time it seemed that the British, victorious upon
both flanks, were yet to lose the battle by being broken in the center.

Now, however, the 48th, which Sir Arthur had ordered down from the hill
when he saw the rash advance of the Guards, was seen advancing in line
through the disordered masses. Wheeling back, it allowed the retreating
regiments to pass through it and then again formed and fell upon the flank
of the victorious French column. The French paused in their advance, the
Guards and Germans rallied and came back again to the fight, the shots of
the British guns plowed lines in the column, the French wavered, and, as
the British light cavalry trotted up with the intention of charging them,
fell back, and drew off to their first position amidst shouts of victory
along the whole length of the British line.

Thus the battle ceased, each party occupying the ground it had held in the
morning. The British loss in killed, wounded, and missing, in the two
days' fighting, was 6200; that of the French 7400. Had the British been in
a condition to have sallied from their position and pursued the retiring
enemy, the victory would have had far greater results; but, exhausted and
half-starved, the British were incapable of following up their advantage.

The next morning at daybreak, the French army quitted its position, and,
retiring across the Alberche, formed line of battle there, and awaited the
attack, should the English take the offensive. This they were in no
position to do, although in the course of the day Craufurd had come up
with the 43d, 52d, and 95th Regiments. These three regiments had heard of
the first day's fighting from the Spanish fugitives, and had marched with
all speed to the assistance of their friends. They had, carrying their kit
and ammunition, weighing from 50 lb. to 60 lb., actually marched sixty-two
miles in twenty-six hours in the hottest season of the year, one of the
greatest feats recorded in military history.

The Rangers had suffered heavily, and in the two days' fighting had lost
thirty-eight killed and 109 wounded. Among the former were two officers,
while several others were wounded. The Scudamores had, fortunately, both
escaped without a scratch. The inhumanity of the Spaniards was now more
markedly shown than ever. Although both in Cuesta's army, and in the town
of Talavera provisions were abundant, yet the inhabitants carefully
concealed them, while both the wounded and fighting men of the British
army were in want. So great was the misery and indignation of the soldiers
at this shameful treatment, from those for whom they were doing so much,
that they would willingly have attacked the Spanish army and plundered the
town; and from this period to the end of the war the British hated the
Spanish with a deep and bitter hatred.

Wellesley now received news that Soult had crossed the mountains through
the pass of Banos, which had been left undefended by the Spanish, and was
marching upon his rear. Believing that Soult had only 13,000 men with him—whereas
in fact, he had 50,000—Sir Arthur left the Spanish army at Talavera
in charge of the hospitals, with 6000 sick and wounded, and retraced his
steps, with the intention of giving battle to this new enemy.

Upon the 3d, however, he learned the real strength of Soult's army, and
upon the same day heard that General Cuesta had basely retreated from
Talavera, without having provided any transport whatever, according to his
promise, for the British sick and wounded. All of these who had strength
to crawl rejoined the British army, but 1500, who were unable to walk,
were left behind, and fell into the hands of the French, by whom they were
treated with far greater kindness and attention than they had been by the
Spanish. Upon the 4th Cuesta joined Sir Arthur, and at six o'clock next
morning the only possible course for safety was adopted. Victor was
advancing from Talavera, Soult was hurrying from Placentia to cut off the
retreat of the British, and accordingly Sir Arthur fell back upon
Arzobispo, on the Tagus.

The artillery, the baggage and wounded, first crossed the bridge, and at
two o'clock the entire army was across. So great was the hunger of the men
that a herd of swine happening to be seen close to the line of march, the
soldiers ran upon them, shot and bayoneted them, and devoured them raw.
Taking up a strong position, guarding the bridges of the Tagus, the
British army remained quiet until the end of August. During this time they
became so weakened by starvation that they could scarcely walk; a great
portion of the cavalry horses, and nearly all the baggage animals died of
hunger, and at last, Sir Arthur, finding that no remonstrances availed
with the Junta, fell back again to the Portuguese frontier by slow
marches, for the army was so utterly enfeebled that it resembled a vast
body of invalids, rather than an army of unbeaten soldiers.

CHAPTER VIII. — A PAUSE IN OPERATIONS.

Talavera was fought in July, 1809, and for four months longer Sir Arthur
Wellesley kept his troops on the Spanish frontier, where his presence
served as a check against any invasion, even by a very formidable army, of
Portugal. After the utter bad faith and cowardice shown by the Spanish,
the great commander was determined never again to trust in their promises,
or to undertake any movement dependent for success upon their
co-operation. The Junta then declared that the Spaniards would alone and
unaided sweep the French beyond the Pyrenees, and a Spanish army of 45,000
infantry, 7000 cavalry, and 60 guns advanced in November against Madrid.
It was met by a French army of 24,000 infantry, 5000 cavalry, and 50 guns.
The battle began at eleven in the morning, and by three the French, with a
loss of only 1700 killed and wounded, had utterly routed the Spanish, with
a loss of 5000 killed and wounded, 45 guns, and 26,000 prisoners! After
this signal and disgraceful defeat, Lord Wellington—for he had now
been raised to the peerage—felt that nothing whatever could be done
at present in Spain, and so fell back into Portugal, where for many months
he occupied himself in preparing to meet the storm which would, he knew,
fall ere long upon that country. The Portuguese authorities were as
incapable, as untrustworthy, and as intractable as were those of Spain;
but here, happily, Lord Wellington had more power. England was paying
large subsidies towards keeping up the Portuguese army, which was
commanded by Lord Beresford, having under him many British officers. The
Portuguese troops were hardy, obedient, and far braver than the Spaniards;
but difficulties often arose in keeping the army together, because the
Portuguese Government, although England was paying the principal expenses
of the army, yet starved their soldiers, and often kept them for months
without pay. It was only by the strongest remonstrances, and by the
oft-repeated threat that he would embark the British troops, and abandon
Portugal altogether, unless these and other abuses were done away with,
that Lord Wellington succeeded in reducing this incapable and insolent
Government to reason.

Reinforcements arrived but slowly from England, for a considerable portion
of the available troops of England were frittered away in holding Cadiz
and in an expedition to Sicily. In these two places some 25,000 English
troops were wasted—a force, which, had it been added to Wellington's
army, would have enabled him to take the field against the French, instead
of being forced to remain in Portugal for upwards of a year without
discharging a single shot against the enemy. Tom and Peter Scudamore,
however, were not destined to remain inactive all these weary months. One
day in November, just before the army fell back from the Spanish frontier,
General Hill was dining at mess with the regiment; for, rough as was the
accommodation, the officers had succeeded in establishing a general mess.
The conversation turned upon the difficulty of discovering what force the
various French generals had at their disposal, the reports received by the
Commander-in-Chief being often ridiculously incorrect. There was also an
immense difficulty in communicating with the guerilla chiefs who, almost
always beaten when they came to blows with any considerable bodies of the
French, yet managed to harass them terribly by cutting off convoys,
falling upon small parties, and attacking outposts and bands of foragers.
Knowing every mountain pass and road, these men could, if they would, keep
Lord Wellington informed of every considerable movement of the enemy, and
might in return receive instruction for acting, when required, in concert
before the communication of an advancing army, or might create a diversion
by uniting their bands, and threatening some important post.

The next day the boys went to Colonel Tritton's quarters, and, referring
to the conversation of the day before, said that they were willing to
carry any messages that the general might require sent, and to obtain any
information wanted.

"Nonsense, boys, you would be hung as spies before you had been gone a
week."

"I don't think so, sir," Tom said; "we have had very little to do during
the six months we have been out here except to learn the language of the
country, and I think now we could pass very well as Spanish boys. Besides,
who would suspect boys? We are quite ready to chance detection if we can
be allowed to go."

"I don't like it, boys; you are too young. Well, if not too young," he
said, in answer to a movement of Tom's to speak, "we all like you too well
to run the risk of hearing you have been hung like a couple of young
puppies."

"You are very kind, colonel; but you know you promised to give us a chance
if you could, and having a chance of course means having extra danger; but
I really don't think that there would be any great danger in it."

"Well, boys," Colonel Tritton said, after a few moments' thought, "I do
not feel justified in refusing your application, and will mention it to
General Hill. There are very few officers in the army who speak Spanish
fluently, and you being boys would, as you say, avert suspicion. But I
tell you fairly that I hope General Hill will at once refuse to entertain
the idea."

"Thank you, sir," the boys said. "Of course that is all we could ask you
to do."

The next day, after parade was over, Colonel Tritton walked on to General
Hill's quarters at a sort of half farm-house, half country-seat, a short
distance from the village, round which the Rangers were encamped. As he
came up to the house, General Hill came out from his door talking to a
Spanish officer, who had the day before brought some despatches from one
of the Spanish generals to Lord Wellington.

Colonel Tritton joined them, and they stood talking together upon the
state of affairs in Spain, and of the advance of the Spanish army on
Madrid, which was then just taking place. As they did so two very ragged,
unkempt Spanish boys, shoeless and wretched-looking, limped up, and began
to beg. General Hill shook his head, and the Spaniard impatiently motioned
them away.

"Por Dios," one whined; "give us something; we are starving. The French
have burnt down our houses, and killed our fathers and mothers—we
are starving. 'Por l'amor de Dios!'"

"What's the poor little beggar say?" General Hill asked the Spaniard.

"The usual story—house burnt, father and mother killed, starving. I
dare say it's all a lie."

"Where did you live?" he asked in Spanish.

"In the village of Oros, near Valencia."

"And how did you come here?"

"The French burnt the village because the guerillas had killed a party of
theirs in it, and they killed all the people, and then carried off the
mules and horses, and took us to drive some of them. That was four months
ago. We had to drive till the other day at Tamanes, when our men beat the
French; our mules were taken, and, as they did not want us as drivers we
had nothing to do but to come on in hopes that the kind English would give
us food."

The Spanish officer translated what the boy said, and General Hill
remarked, "Yes, that was a brilliant affair of the Duke del Pasque's.
Here," he called to an orderly, "give these boys some bread. I will see
what can be done for them afterwards. I am afraid nothing. Poor little
wretches! their story is a very common one."

The boys received the bread with a great show of thankfulness, and,
sitting down by the roadside, began to munch it with great appetite. The
Spanish officer now mounted his horse and rode off, while General Hill and
Colonel Tritton remained standing where he had left them. Colonel Tritton
then told General Hill of the Scudamores' request to be allowed to
penetrate into Spain as spies or with dispatches.

"The young pickles!" General Hill laughed. "What will they be wanting to
do next? Pooh, pooh! it would be out of the question."

"I believe they do really speak Spanish exceedingly well." Colonel Tritton
said. "They generally act as interpreters for us, and none of the officers
speak Spanish with anything like the same fluency."

"As far as the language goes, they might get on, perhaps," General Hill
said; "but they look as thorough English boys as you could see. They would
be detected at once."

"Yes," Colonel Tritton said, "they are both thorough English boys; I
should know them anywhere. What a contrast to the miserable, limping,
hang-dog lads there! Poor little chaps! Why, upon my word, I believe the
fellows are laughing."

General Hill looked sharply at them, and, as he looked from one to the
other, he said sarcastically, "Poor little chaps indeed! You said that
very naturally, Tritton. It really does you credit as an actor."

Colonel Tritton looked at the general with an expression of blank
astonishment.

"What," said the general, "were you really taken in too"

"Taken in?" repeated Colonel Tritton vaguely.

"Don't you see, Tritton, those poor little chaps you are pitying so are
those two young scamps we were talking about."

Colonel Tritton stared in astonishment at the boys, and then, as he
recognized them, he joined the general in a shout of laughter, while the
two boys stood up and saluted with an attempt at gravity which was only
partially successful, so amused were they at the astonishment of their
colonel, as well as pleased at the success of their disguise.

Just at this moment there was a sound of tramping horses, and directly
afterwards an officer rode up, followed by four or five others, and at a
short distance in the rear by an escort of orderlies. The boys needed not
the exclamation of General Hill, "Here is Wellington." They knew who the
rider was, who checked his horse as he reached the gate, for they had
often seen him as he rode through the camp. A slight man, very careful and
neat in his dress, with an aquiline nose and piercing eyes. Peter was
rising as he drew up his horse, when Tom said, "Don't get up, Peter; go on
with your bread. It would look absurd for us to salute now, and would draw
attention to us," he went on, as Lord Wellington dismounted, threw the
bridle off his horse to an orderly, and saying to General Hill, "I wanted
to see you; come in." Colonel Tritton went into the house, followed by the
two officers. "We'll stop here till they come out again, Peter. Perhaps
General Hill may speak to him about us. At any rate, we will keep up our
disguise till they've gone. Let us play at odd and even." It was a game of
which Spanish boys are very fond, and they may be seen in any of the
Spanish towns sitting by the houses on door-steps in the sun playing. It
was half an hour before the general came out again. He was about to mount
his horse, when he glanced at the boys, who were sitting against the wall
a few paces off, seemingly absorbed in their play, and paying no attention
whatever to him. Suddenly he changed his mind, dropped his rein, and
walked up to them.

"What are you playing for?" he asked abruptly in Spanish.

"Reals, señor," Tom said looking up, but not moving.

"You are poor; how can you pay?" asked the general.

"Oh! we don't pay," Tom laughed. "We keep count. I owe him twelve thousand
now. I will pay him when I get rich. He can wait." And he held out his
closed hand again for Peter to guess the number of stones it contained.

"Come inside," Lord Wellington said abruptly, and, turning led the way
into the house again, followed by General Hill, Colonel Tritton, and the
two boys.

"It is not often I change my mind," he said to General Hill; "but for once
I do so now. When you told me about these lads, I refused to employ them
on such dangerous service, even when you told me of the courage and
coolness which they exhibited on the voyage. Now I have tried them myself,
I see that they will do. If they could keep up their disguise when I spoke
to them suddenly, and answer without hesitation or any excitement which
could have shown that they were not what they pretended to be, they can do
so with a French general. I am no judge of the purity of their Spanish;
but as you tell me they deceived a Spanish officer just now, they will be
able to pass with Frenchmen. Now, lads," he went on turning to them, "you
have thought over, of course, the risks you are going to run, and are
prepared, if detected, to be hung like dogs." The boys bowed.

"You will receive detailed instructions through Colonel Tritton, together
with such despatches as I may wish sent. They will be written as small as
possible. You will not go for a week; devote all your time to studying the
map. The largest size we have shall be sent to your colonel this
afternoon. Of course you will be supplied with money, and for anything you
can think of likely to assist you, speak to Colonel Tritton. You are
beginning well, young sirs. If you like, you ought to made a noise in the
world. Now, Hill, I must be off."

And the general left the room with the officers, while the boys were
stammering out their thanks.

"Where did you dress up, boys?" Colonel Tritton asked them after the
general had ridden off. "You did not come out from camp like this I hope?"

"No, colonel; we changed in that little wood there."

"What have you colored your skins with?"

"We got some iodine from the doctor, sir, and mixed it with water till it
was just thick enough to tinge our skin. It will wash pretty well off with
plenty of scrubbing, but we mean to use walnut juice when we start; it
lasts much longer, and is a better brown."

"I am not sure, boys, that you had not better leave your faces alone, they
and your hands are so sunburnt that you would pass well enough, though you
must dye your arms and legs. Fortunately, your hair is pretty dark, for
you can't well carry dye. Think well over all these things, for your lives
may depend on some trifle of this kind. I shall see you at mess."

So saying, Colonel Tritton walked on, leaving the boys to follow at their
leisure. Just as they were about to turn off to make for the woods they
saw a soldier coming along the road.

"That's Sam, if I am not mistaken, Peter, we will have some fun with him.
We can trust him to say nothing in the regiment about meeting us like
this."

The two boys accordingly sat down by a low wall by the roadside, and as
Sam came up talked away to each other in Spanish. He passed without paying
any attention to them. After he had gone a few yards, Tom said in a deep,
loud voice, "Sambo." The black halted suddenly, and turned round. First he
looked angrily at the boys, then he went to the side of the road and
looked over the wall. Then with a very perplexed air he looked up and down
the road.

"Who dat have impudence to call dis colored gentleman Sambo," he said to
himself. "Some fellow did, dat for sartin, not dose little Spanish trash,
dey not know Sam's name, some rascal in regiment; he's hid somewhere. I
pound him to squash when I find him."

Muttering thus he turned to proceed on his way, but before he had gone
twenty yards, he again heard a deep shout. "Here, you, Sambo."

The black jumped as if he was shot, "My golly," he exclaimed, and then
walked back to the boys, who were talking together, shook his head and
again looked over the wall. Then he stooped down to the boys, and shook
his fist in their faces, "You little debils, you call Sambo, I pound you
to squash." The boys both leapt to their feet with an air of intense
surprise and alarm, and began to cry out in Spanish.

"No, can't be you," Sam said, "dis chile must be witched, no place for men
to hide, sartin not dem boys. Stone wall can't call Sambo all by self,
Sam's going out of mind. Oh! Lor, dis berry bad affair," and Sam sat down
by the roadside with a face of such perfect bewilderment and dismay that
the boys could stand it no longer, but went off together into a scream of
laughter, which caused Sam to jump to his feet again. "What you larf for,
what you larf for, you little rascals, you play trick, eh? you call Sambo,
who taught you dat name?" and he seized the two boys and shook them
furiously.

"Oh! Sam, Sam, you will kill us with laughing," Tom got out at last. "Do
leave go, man, or we shall choke," and as Sam, astonished, loosed his
hold, the boys sat down and laughed till their sides ached.

"Golly," exclaimed the negro, as he looked at them, "Dose boys again. What
on earth you do, Massa Tom, Massa Peter, in dose ragged close, what you
dress up like two beggars for? Lor! how you take in dis chile, me tink you
little Spanish trash, sure enuff." It was some time before the boys could
compose themselves, and then Tom made Sam sit close by his side.

"Look here, Sam, this isn't a joke, this is a serious business and before
I tell you anything about it, you must promise to keep the secret
strictly, as it would do us a great deal of harm if it was known." Sam
declared at once that if they tore him to pieces with wild horses he would
say nothing. Tom then explained the whole thing to him and Sam at once
declared that he would go too.

"Quite impossible, Sam. You do not speak a word of Spanish and although at
any of the seaport towns you could pass as a runaway sailor, there could
be no possible reason for your wandering about the country with two
Spanish boys."

Sam thought for some time. "Now dat berry unlucky Massa Tom, dat Sam play
big drum. Big drum fine music, but big drum not go well by self. If Sam
had played fiddle, Sam could go, but Sam couldn't go nohow with big drum."

"I should think not, Sam, with the name of the regiment painted on it. No,
no, you must stay behind. There won't be any fighting now till the spring,
and by that time we shall be back with the regiment."

"But what you do without Sam? who black Massa's boots? who brush his
clothes?"

Tom laughed. "These clothes would fall all to pieces, if they were brushed
much, Sam, and at present we have no boots to be blacked."

"Where you get dose clothes, Massa Tom," Sam asked, examining with great
disgust the rags the boys had on.

"We bought some peasant's clothes about our size, and the first beggar
boys we saw we offered to exchange. You should have seen their faces of
astonishment. When we got the clothes we made them into a bundle, and took
them to the bakehouse, and got the baker to put them into the oven for a
few hours to kill anything there might be in them. Now, Sam, it is time
for us to be going. It will take us an hour's scrubbing to get the color
off us. Be sure you keep our secret."

CHAPTER IX. — WITH THE GUERILLAS.

It was on a fine morning at the end of March that a cortége of muleteers
and mules left the little town of Alonqua. It was now four months since
the Scudamores left the army, and in the intervening time they had tramped
through a large portion of Spain. They had carried with them only a dozen
or so little despatches done up in tiny rolls of the length and about the
thickness of a bodkin, These were sewn inside the lining of their coats,
in the middle of the cloth where it was doubled in at the seams, so that,
even were the clothes to be examined carefully and felt all over, the
chances of detection were slight indeed. They had each, on starting, half
a dozen pieces of Spanish gold coin sewn between the thicknesses of
leather of the soles of each of their shoes, for they did not start in the
beggar clothes in which they had first disguised themselves. Their clothes
were, indeed, worn and somewhat patched, but were of stout material, and
they wore shoes, but no stockings. They had, indeed, the appearance of
Spanish boys of the peasant class. The weather in the north of Spain is
often very cold in winter, and the boys felt that, with rags and bare
feet, they should suffer severely. All that they had to say and do had
been learned by heart. The names and addresses of the agents of the
British Government at every town had been laboriously learned before
starting, and, as Peter said ruefully, it was worse than a dozen Greek
impositions.

At each place of any importance they would find the person to whom they
were instructed to apply, would accost him with some password, and would
be put up by him while they remained there. When they had gained the
intelligence they required—of the number of French troops in the
place and its neighborhood, a knowledge always obtained by going round,
counting the men on parade, or, in the case of small villages, finding out
easily enough from a peasant the number, quartered there, they would write
a report on the number the intentions as far as they could learn them, the
amount of food in store, and the sentiments of the population, would
enclose the despatch in a goose-quill and give it to their host, who was
responsible for forwarding it.

In a great number of cases, indeed, the man to whom they were accredited
was a muleteer. These men hated the French with a hatred even more deep
and deadly than that of other Spaniards, for, in addition to the national
causes of hatred, their mules were constantly being requisitioned or
seized by the troops and they themselves forced to accompany the army for
long distances at a nominal rate of pay for themselves and their animals.
Then, too, they were in close connection with the guerillas, for whom they
carried goods up into the mountains from the towns, and when the chance
came would leave their animals in the mountains and join in cutting off an
enemy's convoy. They acted as messengers and spies too, and took their
friends in the hills early news of intended movements of the enemy. Many a
day had the boys traveled in the company of these muleteers, merry,
careless fellows, singing and talking to their mules, apparently the
best-natured of men, until something would be said which would recall the
hated foe, and then their black eyes would flash, their fingers clutch
their knife-handles, and they would pour out long strings of deep Spanish
oaths. Great was the surprise of these men on receiving the password from
two boys, but they never hesitated an instant in taking them in, in giving
them hospitality as long as they remained, and in either accompanying them
to the next town, or handing them over to the charge of some comrade going
in that direction. Not even to them did the Scudamores ever betray that
they were not what they were taken to be, two Spanish boys employed by the
English commander as messengers. Often they were questioned how the
English had come to entrust important communications to two boys, and
their reply always was that their father and mother had fled to Portugal
from the French, and were living there near the English lines, and that
they had offered their lives in case of their sons' treachery.

This system of hostages seemed probable enough to their questioners, and
if the boys' fare was rather harder, and their treatment more
unceremonious than it would have been had they said that they were British
officers in disguise, they ran far less risk of detection from an
accidental word or sign. Indeed it would have been next to impossible for
them, had they desired it, to convince any one of their identity. There
was no fear now of their accent betraying them. Since they had left the
army they had never, even when alone together, spoken in English. They
made the rule and kept to it for two reasons, the one being that they
found that if they did not get into this habit of always speaking Spanish,
they might inadvertently address each other in English, and thus betray
themselves; the second, that they wanted to learn to speak absolutely like
natives. This they had in the four months thoroughly learned to do. At
first their pronunciation and occasional mistakes excited curiosity when
asked questions as to the part of Spain from which they had come, but
their constant communication with their muleteer friends had quite removed
this, and for the last two months not one person had doubted that they
were not only Spanish, but that they came from the northern provinces.

Hitherto they had journeyed principally between large towns and over
country held by the French, but that part of their work was finished; they
had accurately computed the number of the army with which Massena was to
advance shortly to besiege Ciudad Rodrigo, and they had now to carry the
despatches to the guerilla leaders. Hitherto they had not in a single
instance excited suspicion. Not a Frenchman had asked them a question, and
no adventure of anything like an exciting nature had taken place. They
were now, however, entering into a country entirely different from that
which they had hitherto traversed. The northeast of Spain is wild and
mountainous, and offers immense natural facilities for irregular warfare.
Through the various passes of the Pyrenees lead all the roads from France,
whether to Vittoria on the great road to Madrid, or through Navarre to
Catalonia. Here and there fortified towns still held out against the
French, and the town of Gerona, in Catalonia, had only fallen after a six
months' regular siege, and a desperate defense which fully rivals that of
Saragossa. Is it not a little singular that the Spaniards, who in the open
field were, with a few remarkable exceptions, absolutely contemptible, yet
frequently defended towns with wonderful fortitude, courage, and
desperation. It may, indeed, be said that in every siege where the
Spaniards were commanded by brave and resolute chiefs they behaved
admirably. This great range of hill country was the stronghold of the
guerillas, and every convoy from France had to be protected by a large
force, and even then often suffered greatly from the harassing attacks of
their active enemies.

The bands of the guerilla chiefs differed greatly in strength, varying
from merely ten or a dozen men to three or four thousand, and indeed each
band varied continually. The men, when not required, would scatter to
their homes, cultivate their little patches of ground, and throw down the
spade and take up the rifle again when they heard of a convoy to cut off,
or an invading column to beat back. The bands, too, would vary in
proportion to the renown of their chiefs. An energetic man, who, at the
head of a handful, had performed some daring feats, would find himself a
week afterwards the leader of many hundreds, while a chief who was slow
and dilatory would find his band melt away like snow in summer.

The character of the warfare depended much upon the character of the
French generals. A few of these kept the troops under their command
sternly in hand, would permit no plundering, and insisted upon their fair
treatment of the Spaniards. These in turn wanted nothing better than to
remain quietly in their homes, and the guerilla bands would melt away to
nothing. Other generals, furious at the savage nature of the warfare, and
the incessant toil and loss entailed upon their troops, allowed the latter
to do as they pleased, and burning houses and dead bodies marked their
course. Then the peasantry, now turned guerillas, retaliated as savagely,
giving no quarter, sacrificing all prisoners, and putting the wounded to
death, sometimes with torture. On both sides horrible atrocities were
committed.

The guerillas were armed partly with rifles and carbines, partly with
muskets landed on the coast by the British Government, who also, from time
to time, sent powder and money to assist them to continue their resistance
to the French. Although nowhere really formidable, yet, being scattered
over a great extent of country, these bands occupied very large bodies of
French troops, who would otherwise have been disposable for general
operations in the field. The English commander-in-chief had, of course, no
shadow of authority over the guerillas, or, indeed, over any of the
Spanish troops, and his communication to them simply asked what arms and
ammunition they required, and begged them to send him a list of the number
of men they could each throw on the French communications and lines of
retreat in case he should find himself in a position to make a general
advance against them. He also recommended most strongly the bearers of the
despatch to their care. It was to the chief known as Nunez that they were
now bound. The mule train was nominally destined for Vittoria, to which
town the leader had got a pass, specifying the number of mules and the
nature of the goods they carried, from the French commandant at Alonqua,
for no one was allowed to take the goods about the country without a pass,
in order to prevent supplies being forwarded to the mountains. This pass,
however, only mentioned twelve mules with four drivers, and this was the
number which started from Alonqua. Another score of mules, however, joined
them at a short distance from the town where a by-road turned off. Some of
these had gone out from the town unloaded, as if taken out to graze,
others had not entered the town, but had come direct from the sea-coast by
by-paths with powder, and had been awaiting the departure of Garcias, the
name of the leader of the party. They had eight men with them, all armed
to the teeth.

"Is it all right, Garcias?"

"All right," the leader said; "they have sent out their squadrons on the
other road, so I think we are safe for to-day."

"What boys have you got there with you?"

"They have business with Nunez; letter from the coast."

The cavalcade was now in motion again, and wound gradually up into the
hills. Presently they came to a point where four roads met. A clump of
trees grew hard by, and the boys gave a start of horror at seeing the
bodies of six French soldiers swinging from them. "Ay, that's Nunez's
work, I expect," Garcias said coolly. "There were three of his men
swinging there last week, so as a lesson he has hung up six of the French.
He is a rough boy to play with, is Nunez."

At sunset the party slept in a small farm, and at daybreak continued their
journey. They were now in the heart of the mountains, and their path lay
sometimes up deep ravines, sometimes along rocky ledges. At last, about
midday, they entered a valley in which stood a small village. "That's
Nunez's head-quarters to-day," Garcias said; "to-morrow he may be no one
knows where."

"But does he have to sally out by the wretched road by which we have
come?" Tom asked.

"No, no," Garcias replied; "he would not catch much prey that way. There
are three other ways out of the valley. That winding path you see there
leads up to Santona. That road on the other side leads out on to the
plain, and thence to Vittoria; while the footpath over the brow opposite
leads right down into the wide valley through which the main north road
runs. So you see this is a handy spot. From that brow we can see the
convoys going to and from France, and can pour down upon them if they are
weak; while, if a column is sent in search of us, we can vanish away long
before they can catch us. Nunez does not use the direct road over the brow
for his attack, but follows the Santona or Vittoria road for a while, and
then makes a swoop round. He does not want to bring the French up to this
village, for his family and the families of many of the men live here."

As they approached the village, they found that there was a good deal of
bustle going on. Armed men were coming out of the cottages, and gathering
in a group round a rough stone cross, which stood in the center of a sort
of green. "We are just in time," Garcias said; "Nunez is starting on some
expedition or other."

When they reached the spot there were nearly two hundred men assembled.
They greeted Garcias with shouts of welcome as he arrived. "Ah, ah!
Garcias, just in time. Our last skin of wine was emptied last night; we
will bring some more up to-morrow; but if you had not come we should have
had to start thirsty, and that's unlucky besides being unpleasant."

"Where is Nunez!" Garcias asked.

"Here he comes," was the reply; and the boys turning saw a figure
approaching, which by no means answered to the expectation of the
celebrated guerilla chief. He was small and almost humpbodied, but very
broad. His head seemed too large for his body, and a pair of fierce eyes
gleamed out from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. His mustache was thin and
bristly and his month wide, but with thin lips. The boys could understand
the reputation for cruelty and mercilessness which attached to this
sinister-looking figure, but there was none of the savage power which they
had expected to see in so celebrated a leader.

"Any news, Garcias?" he asked shortly, as he came up.

"None, captain, except that these boys have brought some despatches for
you from the English Lord."

Nunez looked sharply at them, and held out his hand without speaking. Tom
gave him the little quill.

The guerilla opened it, read the contents, and, saying briefly, "An answer
to-morrow," strode on to his men, and in a few minutes they were defiling
out at the end of the valley.

"That hardly seems a strong enough body to attack a French convoy,
Garcias," Tom remarked.

"No, it would not be, but there is only a part of his band here; the rest
will join him at some place agreed on—perhaps ten miles from here. I
believe he has about thousand men under his orders. Now come along; we
shall be none the worse for dinner," and, leaving his men to unload the
mules, he led the way into the little posada, or inn.

"Ah! Mother Morena," he said to an old woman who was crouching near a
blazing wood fire, "warming yourself as usual; it's well you've a good
fire, for you will be able to get us some dinner all the more quickly.
Twelve of us altogether, and all as hungry as wolves."

"Ah!" exclaimed the old woman crossly; "it seems as if I were never to
have an hour's quiet, just as all that roaring, greedy lot, with their
Mother Morena here and Mother Morena there, and their grumbling at the
olla, and their curses and their quarrels, are off, and I think I am going
to have a quiet afternoon, then you come in with your twelve hungry
wolves."

"Ah! mother, but wolves don't pay, and we do, you see."

The frugal supper over, the boys laid down on the benches, and were soon
asleep. The next day passed slowly, for the band were not expected to
return until late at night—perhaps not until the next morning, as
the pass where the attack would be made was some fifteen miles off, and
the convoy might not pass there until late in the afternoon. The boys soon
made friends with some of the women and children of the place, to whom
they told stories of the great cities of the plain, and of the great water
which washed the shores of Spain. The greater portion of the Spanish
peasantry are incredibly ignorant, and very few of the inhabitants of this
village had ever gone beyond the mountains. Walking about in the village,
but apparently mixing but very little in the games of the other children,
were two little girls, whose gay dress of rich silk seemed strangely out
of place in such a spot.

Tom asked one of the women who they were, and she replied, with a toss of
the head, "They are the captain's children. The last time the band went
out they found among the baggage and brought up here, the dresses of the
children of some fine lady, and the captain kept them all as part of his
share, just as if there were no children in the village whom it would
become a great deal better than those stuck-up little things. Not," she
said, softening a little, "that they were not nice enough before they got
these things; but since they came their heads have been quite turned by
the finery and they are almost too grand to speak to their old
playfellows."

"Is their mother alive?"

"No, poor thing, she was killed by the French when the village she lived
in was burned by them, because some of them were found hung in the
neighborhood. The captain was away at the time and the children were out
in the woods. When he came back he found them crying by the side of their
mother's body, in the middle of the burning village. So then he took to
the mountains, and he never spares a Frenchman who falls into his hands.
He has suffered, of course, but he brought it upon himself, for he had a
hand in hanging the French soldiers, and now he is a devil. It will be bad
for us all; for some day, when the French are not busy with other things,
they will rout us out here, and then who can blame them if they pay us for
all the captain's deeds? Ah! me, they are terrible times, and Father Predo
says he thinks the end of the world must be very near. I hope it will come
before the French have time to hunt us down."

The boys had a hard struggle not to smile, but the woman spoke so
earnestly and seriously, that they could only shake their heads in grave
commiseration for her trouble; and then Tom asked, "Is the captain very
fond of the children?"

"He worships them," the woman said; "he has no heart and no pity for
others. He thinks no more of blood than I do of water; but he is as tender
as a woman with them. One of them was ill the other day—a mere
nothing, a little fever—and he sat by her bedside for eight days
without ever lying down."

"I suppose," Tom said, "they never bring prisoners up here?"

"Yes, they do," the woman said; "not common soldiers; they kill them at
once; but sometimes officers, if they want to exchange them for some of
ours who may have been taken, or if they think they are likely to get a
high ransom for them. But there, it always comes to the same thing; there,
where you see that mound on the hillside, that's where they are. They
blindfold them on their way up here, lest they might find their way back
after all. Only one or two have ever gone down again. I wish they would
finish with them all down below; they are devils and heretics these
French; but I don't care about seeing them killed. Many of us do, though,
and we have not many diversions up here, so I suppose it's all for the
best."

"I wish that fellow had given us our answer before he went away," Tom said
to Peter when they were alone. "I hope he won't bring any prisoners up
here; these massacres are frightful, and one side seems as bad as the
other. Well, in another month we shall have finished with all this work,
and be making for the frontier again. Shan't I be glad when we catch sight
of the first red-coats!"

In the middle of the night the boys were roused by a general bustle, and
found that a messenger had just arrived, saying that the expedition had
been successful, that a portion of the enemy had been cut off, their
rear-guard destroyed, and that the whole band would be up soon after
daylight. The village was astir early, but it was not until nine o'clock
that the guerilla band arrived. The boys saw at a glance that they were
stronger in numbers than when they started, and that with them were some
twenty or thirty baggage animals.

The women flocked out to meet them with shrill cries of welcome. The booty
taken was not of any great value in money, but was more valuable than gold
to the guerillas.

Each one of the band carried, in addition to his own piece, a new French
musket, while in the barrels on the mules were powder and ball; there were
bales of cloth, and some cases of brandy and champagne, and a few boxes
and portmanteaus of officers' baggage. In the rear of all, under a strong
guard, were two French officers, both wounded, a lady and a child of some
seven or eight years old.

After a boisterous greeting to their wives, the band broke up, and
scattered over the village, three or four men remaining to guard the
captives, who were told to sit down against a wall.

The whole band were soon engaged in feasting, but no one paid the least
attention to the prisoners. The lady had sunk down exhausted, with the
little girl nestled close to her, the officers faint and pale from loss of
blood, leaned against the wall. One of them asked the guards for some
water, but the men paid no attention to the request, answering only with a
savage curse. Tom and Peter, who were standing by, immediately went to the
inn, filled a jug with water, and, taking a drinking horn and some bread,
went back. One of the guards angrily ordered them back as they approached.

"I am not going to free them," Tom said, soothingly; "there can be no
reason why they should die of thirst, if they are enemies."

"I am thirsty myself," one of the guard said, "and it does us good to see
them thirst."

"What, has no one brought you anything to drink?" Tom said, in a tone of
surprise. "Here, Peter, you give this bread and water to these prisoners;
I will run to Mother Morena's and bring some wine for the guard."

The guard would not allow Peter to approach the captives until Tom arrived
with a large jug of wine, and a cold fowl, which he had obtained at the
inn. These the Spaniards accepted, and allowed the boys to give the water
to the prisoners. All drank eagerly, with every expression of
thankfulness, the lady seizing Peter's hand and kissing it as he handed
the horn to the child. The lady was a very bright, pretty woman, though
now pale and worn with fatigue and emotion, and the child was a lovely
little creature.

The boys, on leaving the prisoners, hurried to Garcias.

"What are they going to do with the prisoners, Garcias?"

"They have brought them up here to exchange for Nunez's lieutenant, who
was taken last week. One of the men went off last night to Vittoria with a
letter to offer to exchange. One of the officers is a colonel, and the
young one a captain. The lady is, they say, the wife of General Reynier."

"Then they are safe," Tom said joyfully, "for, of course the French would
exchange a guerilla against three such prisoners."

"Yes," Garcias said, "they are safe if Vagas has not been shot before the
messenger gets to Vittoria. The messenger will hear directly he gets
there, and if they have finished Vagas, he will come straight back, for
his letter will be of no use then."

"But the French would pay a ransom for them."

"Yes; but the captain is never fond of ransoming, and if the news comes
that Vagas is shot it is all up with them."

"But they will never murder a woman and child in cold blood!" Tom said, in
tones of indignant horror.

"Women are killed on both sides," the muleteer said, placidly. "I don't
hold to it myself, but I don't know, after all, why a woman's life is a
bit more precious than a man's. Vagas's wife and children are here, too,
and if the news comes of his death, she would stir the band up to kill the
prisoners, even if the captain wanted to save them, which he certainly
will not do."

"When is the messenger expected back?"

"If he goes to Vittoria and finds Vagas is alive, and arranges for the
exchange, he won't be back till late to-night, perhaps not till to-morrow;
but, if he hears, either on the way or directly he gets there, that he is
dead, he may be back this afternoon." Soon after this conversation Garcias
was sent for to the chief, and returned with a small note, which he handed
to the boys as the answer to the despatch, and urged them to go at once.
The boys said that they could not leave until they saw the end of this
terrible drama which was passing before their eyes. It was early in the
afternoon when a man was seen coming along the path from Vittoria. A
hundred eager eyes examined him, and ere long it was declared as certain
that it was the messenger. The boys' heart sank within them as they saw
the fierce look cast by the Spaniards in the direction of the prisoners,
for every one in the village was well aware of the meaning of this early
return. The boys had arranged upon the course they would pursue, and they
at once hurried to Garcias.

"Please come with us at once to Nunez. We want to see him before the
messenger arrives."

"I will come with you," Garcias said; "but if you think that any talking
of yours will persuade Nunez to move out of his way, you are mistaken. It
is more likely to cost you your own lives, I can tell you; however, I gave
you the promise I would do my best for you when you started with me, and I
will go with you now, though what you want to interfere for here is more
than I can make out. Pshaw! what matters two or three of these accursed
French, more or less?"

As they neared the chief's house they saw him coming towards them. His
brow was as black as thunder; he was evidently prepared for the news of
his lieutenant's death.

"These messengers want to speak to you for a moment," Garcias said.

The chief stopped with an impatient gesture.

"Señor," Tom said, with a dignity which surprised the chief; "we are not
what we seem. We are two English officers, and we have come to beg of you,
to implore you, not to tarnish the cause for which you fight by shedding
the blood of women and children."

The boys had agreed that it would be altogether hopeless to try to save
the French officers.

"British officers, indeed," exclaimed Nunez, "a likely story. Do you know
them as such, Garcias?"

"No," Garcias said bluntly, "I never guessed at it; but now they say so, I
think it's likely enough, for they don't seem to see things in the same
way as other people."

"I can give you proof of it," Tom said, calmly, pulling up the sleeve of
his coat, and showing a cicatrix in his forearm. Taking a knife from his
pocket, he cut into the skin, and drew forth a tiny silver tube. This he
opened, and handed to Nunez a paper signed by Lord Wellington, declaring
the bearers to be British officers, and requesting all loyal Spaniards to
give them every assistance.

The captain read it through, and flung it down. "You may be officers," he
said contemptuously; "but if you were Lord Wellington himself, I would not
spare these accursed French. Listen!" and as he spoke a howl of rage ran
from the other end of the village, and told too plainly the nature of the
tidings the messenger had brought.

"I again protest," Tom said firmly. "I protest, as a British officer, and
in the name of humanity, against this cold-blooded murder of a woman and
child. It is a disgrace to Spain, a disgrace to the cause, it is a brutal
and cowardly act."

The guerilla furiously drew a pistol; but Garcias placed himself between
him and Tom. "I have promised him a safe conduct," he said, "and have
given my word for his safety. He is only a boy, and a young fool; don't
trouble with him."

Fortunately at this moment, for the guerilla was still irresolutely
handling his pistol, a crowd was seen coming towards them, headed by a
woman who seemed frantic with rage and grief. All were shouting, "Death to
the assassins! death to the French!" The chief at once moved forward to
meet them.

Tom and Peter gave a significant glance towards each other, and then Tom
turned to go back towards the house which Nunez inhabited, while Peter
hurried towards the spot where the prisoners were kept. Already a crowd
was assembling who were talking threateningly at the French officers.
Peter made his way through them until he stood by the lady, who, with her
child clinging to her neck, looked in terror at the angry crowd, whose
attention, however, was directed to the officers, who stood looking calmly
indifferent to their threats and insults.

"Do you speak Spanish, madam?" Peter asked, leaning over her.

She shook her head.

"Do you speak English?" he asked, in that tongue.

"Yes, yes, a little." the lady said, eagerly; "who are you? What is this
fierce crowd about?"

"Hush!" Peter said. "I am a friend. Listen. In a few minutes they are
going to shoot you all." The lady gave a stifled cry, and pressed her
child close to her. "Remember, when they come to you, ask for a priest;
gain a few minutes, and I hope to save you and the child."

So saying, he slipped away into the crowd again. He had scarcely done so
when Nunez arrived, accompanied by many of his men. The crowd fell back,
and he strode up to the French officers. "French dogs," he said, "you are
to die. I spared you to exchange, but your compatriots have murdered my
lieutenant, and so now it's your turn. You may think yourselves lucky that
I shoot you, instead of hanging you. Take them to that wall," he said,
pointing to one some twenty yards off.

The Frenchmen understood enough Spanish to know that their fate was
sealed. Without a word they took each other's hands, and marched proudly
to the spot pointed out. Here, turning round, they looked with calm
courage at the Spaniards, who formed up with leveled muskets at a few
paces distance. "Vive la France! Tirez," said the elder, in a firm, voice,
and in a moment they fell back dead, pierced with a dozen balls.

Peter had turned away when Nunez appeared on the scene, to avoid seeing
the murder, and with his eyes fixed in the direction in which Tom had
gone, he listened almost breathlessly to what should come. The French lady
had sat immovable, cowering over her child, while her countrymen were
taken away and murdered. As Nunez passed where she crouched, he said to
two of his men, "Put your muskets to their heads, and finish them!" As the
men approached, she lifted up her face, pale as death, and said,—

"Un prêtre, uno padre!"

"She wants a priest," the men said, drawing back; "she has a right to
absolution."

There was a murmur of assent from those around, and two or three started
to the priest's house, situated only a few yards away, being one of the
end houses of the village. The priest soon appeared, came up to the spot,
and received orders to shrive the Frenchwoman. He attempted a
remonstrance, but was silenced by a threat from Nunez, and knowing from
experience of such scenes that his influence went for nothing with Nunez
and his fierce band, he bent over her, and the crowd drew back, to let
them speak unheard. At this moment, to Peter's intense relief, he saw Tom
approaching with the captain's two children walking beside him. Absorbed
in what was passing before them, no one else looked round, and Peter
slipped away and joined his brother. They came within twenty yards of the
crowd, and then paused.

"Wait a minute," Tom said to the children, "your father is busy."

In another minute Nunez shouted roughly, "There that will do; finish with
it and have done! I want to be off to my dinner."

Tom and Peter simultaneously drew out a large Spanish knife, and each took
one of the children firmly by the shoulder.

"Stop! Señor Nunez!" Tom shouted in a loud, clear tone. "Stop! or by
heaven there will be four victims instead of two! Let one of you lift a
finger against these captives—let one of you come one step nearer to
us—and, by the Holy Virgin, we will drive our knives into these
children's hearts!"

A cry of astonishment broke from the crowd, and one of agony and rage from
Nunez, who tottered against a wall in horror at the danger in which his
daughters were placed.

"Listen! all of you," Tom said, "we are English officers, we have shown
our papers to Nunez, and he knows it is so. We will not suffer this murder
of a mother and her child. If they are to die, we will die with them; but
these two children shall die too! Now, what is it to be?"

A dozen of the guerillas leveled their guns at the two daring boys.

"No! no!" Nunez shrieked; "lower your guns. Don't hurt the children,
señors. The captives shall not be hurt; I swear it! They shall go free.
Give me my children."

"Not if I know it," Tom said; "Do you think I could trust the word of a
man who would murder women and children in cold blood? No; these girls
shall go with us as hostages, till we are safe under French guard."

"They will tell them the way up here," said one of the woman in the group,
"and then we shall be all killed."

"No," Tom said; "the lady shall swear not to tell the way up here. She
shall swear on your priest's crucifix. We will give you our words as
British officers."

"But how are the children to get back here again?" another asked, for
Nunez was so paralyzed that he could only gaze on the children, who were
crying bitterly, and implore them to stand quiet, and not try to get away.
After more parleying the arrangements were completed. The crowd fell back
on either side, so as to leave a large space round the French lady. Tom
and Peter then went up to them with the little girls. The lady was sobbing
with joy and excitement at this unexpected relief.

"Can you walk?" Tom asked her in English.

"Yes," she said, getting up hastily, but almost falling again.

"Garcias will go first, as guide. The priest will give you his arm," Tom
went on, "these two young women will go with you and carry your child if
necessary. You will walk on, twenty yards ahead of us. We follow with
these girls. No one is to follow us, or accompany us. We are to go on like
that till we come upon your outposts, and then the priest and the two
women will bring back Nunez's children."

"You will send them safe back, you swear?" asked Nunez, in tremulous
tones.

"Psha!" Tom said contemptuously, "you don't suppose we are
child-murderers, like yourself."

"Remember!" the guerilla said, in a sudden burst of passion, "if you ever
cross my path again, I will—"

"Do terrible things no doubt," Tom said scornfully; "and do you beware,
too. It is wild beasts like yourself who have brought disgrace and ruin on
Spain. No defeat could dishonor and disgrace her as much as your fiendish
cruelty. It is in revenge for the deeds that you and those like you do,
that the French carry the sword and fire to your villages. We may drive
the French out, but never will a country which fights by murder and
treachery become a great nation. Are you ready, Garcias!"

"I am ready," the muleteer said, stepping forward from the silent and
scowling throng.

"We can trust you," Tom said heartily; "take us the short way straight
down into the valley; we may have the luck to come upon a passing French
troop in an hour. Think of that, madam," he said to the French lady, "let
that give you strength and courage."

So saying, the procession set out in the order Tom had indicated, amidst
the curses of the guerillas, who were furious at seeing themselves thus
bearded. At the brow of the hill Tom looked back, and saw that the
guerillas were still standing in a group, in front of which he could
distinguish the figure of Nunez. Taking off his hat, he waved an ironical
farewell, and then followed the party down the hillside into the broad
valley below. They could see the road stretching like a thread along it,
but to their disappointment, not a figure was visible upon it. Now that
there was no longer danger of treachery, the party closed up together.

"How far is it to Vittoria, Garcias?"

"Twenty good miles, señor."

"But we shall never get there," Tom said in dismay. "I am sure the lady
could not walk another five miles; she is quite exhausted now."

"You will not have to go five miles, señor. There is a body of four or
five hundred French in that large village you see there; it is not more
than three miles at most."

It was a weary journey, for the French lady, exhausted by fatigue and
excitement, was often obliged to stop and sit down to rest, and, indeed,
could not have got on at all had not Garcias on one side and the padre on
the other helped her on. At last, just as the sun was setting, they
approached the village, and could see the French sentries at its entrance.
When within a hundred yards they paused.

"We are safe now," Tom said; "it is not necessary for you to go farther.
Good-by, little ones; I am sorry we have given you such a fright, but it
was not our fault. Good-by, padre; I know that you will not grudge your
walk, for the sake of its saving the lives of these unfortunates. Good-by,
Garcias; thanks for your kindness and fidelity. I will report them when I
return, and will, if I get a chance, send you a remembrance of our journey
together."

"Good-by, señors," Garcias said, shaking them by the hand; "you English
are different to us, and I am not surprised now at your General holding
Portugal against all the French armies." Then he lowered his voice, so
that the Spanish women standing by could not hear him. "Be on your guard,
señors; don't move on from the village without a strong convoy is going
on; change your disguise, if possible; distrust every one you come across,
and, in heaven's name, get back to your lines as soon as possible, for you
may be assured that your steps will be dogged, and that you will be safe
nowhere in Spain from Nunez's vengeance. The guerillas communicate with
each other, and you are doomed if you fall into the hands of any, except,
perhaps, one or two of the greater chiefs. Be always on your guard; sleep
with your eyes open. Remember, except in the middle of a French regiment,
you will never be really safe."

"Thanks, Garcias!" the boys said earnestly, "we will do our best to keep
our throats safe. At any rate, if we go down, it shall not be for want of
watchfulness!"

Another shake of the hands, and the party separated. The Spanish woman who
was carrying the sleeping French child handed her over to Tom, who took
her without waking her while Peter lent his arm to the French lady.

"Madam," Tom said in English, "you will soon be among your friends. I know
that you will keep your promise not to divulge the situation of the
village you have left. I must ask you, also, to promise me not to say that
we speak English, or to say anything which may create a suspicion that we
are not what we seem. You will, of course, relate your adventures, and
speak of us merely as Spanish boys, who acted as they did being moved by
pity for you. We must accompany you for some time, for Nunez will move
heaven and earth to get us assassinated, and all we want is that you shall
obtain permission for us to sleep in the guard-room, so as to be under
shelter of French bayonets until we can decide upon our course of action."

The lady assented with a gesture, for she was too exhausted to speak, and
as they reached the French sentries she tottered and sank down on the
ground insensible.

CHAPTER X. — MADRID.

The French sentries, who had been watching with surprise the slow approach
of two peasant boys, the one carrying a child, the other assisting a woman
clad in handsome, but torn and disheveled clothes, on seeing the latter
fall, called to their comrades, and a sergeant and some soldiers came out
from a guard-room close by.

"Hallo!" said the sergeant. "What's all this? Who is this woman? And where
do you come from?"

The boys shook their heads.

"Of course," the sergeant said, lifting the lady, "they don't understand
French; how should they? She looks a lady, poor thing. Who can she be, I
wonder?"

"General Reynier," Tom said, touching her.

"General Reynier!" exclaimed the sergeant to his comrades. "It must be the
general's wife. I heard she was among those killed or carried off from
that convoy that came through last night. Jacques, fetch out Captain
Thibault, and you, Noel, run for Dr. Pasques."

The officer on guard came out, and, upon hearing the sergeant's report,
had Madame Reynier at once carried into a house hard by, and sent a
message to the colonel of the regiment. The little girl, still asleep, was
also carried in and laid down, and the regimental doctor and the colonel
soon arrived. The former went into the house, the latter endeavored in
vain to question the boys in French. Finding it useless, he walked up and
down impatiently until a message came down from the doctor that the lady
had recovered from her fainting fit, and wished to see him at once.

Tom and Peter, finding that no one paid any attention to them, sat,
quietly down by the guard-house.

In a few minutes the French colonel came down. "Where are those boys?" he
exclaimed hastily. There was quite a crowd of soldiers round the house,
for the news of the return of General Reynier's wife and child had
circulated rapidly and created quite an excitement. "Where are those
boys?" he shouted again.

The sergeant of the guard came forward.

"I had no orders to keep them prisoners, sir," he said in an apologetic
tone, for he had not noticed the boys, and thought that he was going to
get into a scrape for not detaining them; but he was interrupted by one of
the soldiers who had heard the question, bringing them forward.

To the astonishment of the soldiers, the colonel rushed forward, and, with
a Frenchman's enthusiasm, actually kissed them. "Mes braves garçons!" he
exclaimed. "Mes braves garçons! Look you, all of you," he exclaimed to the
soldiers, "you see these boys, they are heroes, they have saved, at the
risk of their own lives, mark you, General Reynier's wife and daughter;
they have braved the fury of that accursed Nunez and his band, and have
brought them out from that den of wolves." And then, in excited tones, he
described the scene as he had heard it from Madame Reynier.

At this relation the enthusiasm of the French soldiers broke out in a
chorus of cheers and excited exclamations. The men crowded round the boys,
shook them by the hands, patted them on the back, and in a hundred strange
oaths vowed an eternal friendship for them.

After a minute or two, the colonel raised his hand for silence. "Look
you," he said to the men. "You can imagine that, after what these boys
have done, their life is not safe for a moment. This accursed Nunez will
dog them and have them assassinated if he can. So I leave them to you; you
will take care of them, my children, will you not?"

A chorus of assurances was the reply, and the boys found themselves as it
were adopted into the regiment. The soldiers could not do enough for them,
but, as neither party understood the other's language, the intercourse did
not make much progress. They had, however, real difficulty in refusing the
innumerable offers of a glass of wine or brandy made to them by every
group of soldiers as they moved about through the village.

The boys felt that their position was a false one; and although, in point
of fact, they had no report to make upon the regiment, still the
possibility that if discovered they might be thought to have been acting
as spies on men who treated them with so much friendliness was repugnant
to them. However, their stay was not to be prolonged, for the regiment had
already been stationed for a month at the village, and was to be relieved
by another expected hourly from France, and was then to go on to Madrid.
This they learned from one of the soldiers who could speak a few words of
Spanish.

It was upon the third day after their arrival that the expected regiment
came in, and next morning the boys started soon after daybreak with their
friends. They had not seen Madame Reynier during their stay in the
village, for she was laid up with a sharp attack of illness after the
excitement she had gone through. She was still far from fit to travel, but
she insisted on going on, and a quantity of straw was accordingly laid in
a cart, pillows and cushions were heaped on this, and an awning was
arranged above to keep off the sun. The regiment had taken on the
transport animals which had come in with the baggage of the troops the
night before; hence the mule drivers and other followers were all
strangers. The boys were marching beside the regiment, talking with one of
the sergeants who had been previously for two years in Spain, and spoke a
little Spanish, when the colonel, who had been riding alongside Madame
Reynier, told them as he passed on to the head of the regiment, that she
wished to speak to them.

The boys fell out, and allowed the troops and the line of baggage animals
and carts to pass them. As the latter came along, Tom observed one of the
Spanish drivers glance in their direction, and immediately avert his head.

"Peter, that fellow is one of Nunez's band; I will almost swear to his
face. No doubt he has joined the convoy for the purpose of stabbing us on
the first opportunity. I expected this. We must get rid of them at once."

The boys had both been furnished with heavy cavalry pistols by order of
the colonel, to defend themselves against any sudden attack, and, placing
his hand on the butt in readiness for instant use, Tom, accompanied by his
brother walked up to the Spaniard.

"You and those with you are known," he said. "Unless you all fall out at
the next village we come to, I will denounce you, and you haven't five
minutes to live after I do so. Mind, if one goes on you all suffer."

The Spaniard uttered a deep execration, and put his hand on his knife, but
seeing that the boys were in readiness, and that the French baggage guard
marching alongside would certainly shoot him before he could escape, he
relinquished his design.

"Mind," Tom said, "the first village; it is only a mile ahead, and we
shall probably halt there for five minutes; if one of you goes a single
foot beyond it, you will swing in a row."

So saying, the boys dropped behind again until Madame Reynier's cart came
along. The sides were open, and the lady, who was sitting up, supported by
pillows, with her child beside her, saw them, and called to them to climb
up to her. They did so at once, and she then poured forth her thanks in
tones of the deepest gratitude.

"My husband is not at Madrid," she said when she saw by the boys'
confusion that they would be really glad if she would say no more; "but
when he hears of it he will thank you for saving his wife and child. Of
course," she went on, "I can see that you are not what you seem. Spanish
boys would not have acted so. Spanish boys do not speak English. That
makes it impossible for me in any way to endeavor to repay my obligation.
Had you been even Spanish peasants, the matter would have been
comparatively easy; then my husband could have made you rich and
comfortable for life; as it is—"

She paused, evidently hoping that they would indicate some way in which
she could serve them.

"As it is, madam," Tom said, "you can, if you will, be of great service to
us by procuring for us fresh disguises in Madrid, for I fear that after
what happened with Nunez our lives will not be safe from his vengeance
anywhere in Spain. Already we have discovered that some of his band are
accompanying this convoy with the intention of killing us at the first
opportunity."

"Why do you not denounce them instantly?" Madame Reynier said, rising in
her excitement and looking round.

"We cannot well do that," Tom said, "at least not if it can be avoided.
They know already that we have recognized them, and will leave at the next
village; so we are safe at present, but in Madrid we shall be no longer
so. We cannot remain permanently under the guard of the bayonets of the
63d Line; and indeed our position is as you may guess, a false and
unpleasant one, from which we would free ourselves at the first
opportunity. We shall therefore ask you, when you get to Madrid, to
provide us with fresh disguises and a pass to travel west as far as the
limits of the French lines."

"You can consider that as done," Madame Reynier answered; "I only regret
that it is so slight a return. And now," she said lightly, to change the
conversation, "I must introduce you to this young lady. Julie," she asked
in French, "do you remember those boys?"

"Yes," Julie said; "these are the boys who gave mamma and Julie water when
those wicked men would not give us anything to drink when we were thirsty;
and it was these boys that mamma said prevented the wicked men from
killing us. They are good boys, nice boys, but they are very ragged and
dirty."

Madame Reynier smiled, and translated Julie's answer.

"You know," she went on, hesitatingly, "that I know that—that you
are English officers. I heard you say so when you saved us. But how is it
that you can be officers so very young?"

Tom explained that in England the officers entered for the most part
directly, and not, as in the French army, by promotion from the ranks, and
that, consequently, the junior officers were much younger than those of
equal rank in the French service.

The convoy had now reached the village, and a halt was ordered, and the
boys alighting, walked forward to see that their unwelcome attendants
quitted them. As the soldiers fell out from their order of march and sat
down under the shade of the houses many of the Spaniards with the
baggage-train followed their example, and the boys saw the man to whom
they had spoken go up to four others, and in a short time these separated
themselves from the rest, went carelessly round a corner, and when the
order came to continue the march, failed to make their appearance. Their
absence passed unnoticed save by the boys, for the natives frequently took
advantage of the passage of troops and convoys to travel from one part of
the country to another, for the guerillas were for the most part little
better than brigands, and would plunder their own countrymen without
scruple whenever the opportunity was favorable.

The march to Madrid was accomplished without adventure, and the boys
improved the occasion by endeavoring to pick up as many French phrases as
they could, as they marched along by the side of the sergeant who had
specially taken them under his charge. He knew a little Spanish, so they
managed to keep up a conversation with him in a strange medley of the two
languages, which helped to pass the time away merrily. At Madrid they took
up their quarters in the barracks with the regiment; they had already
explained their plan of disguise to Madame Reynier, and she had promised
to provide all that was necessary and to obtain the military pass for
them.

They had soon reason to congratulate themselves that their stay in Madrid
was under the protection of French bayonets. During the day after their
arrival they remained quietly in barracks, as the appearance of two
Spanish peasants walking about the street with French soldiers would have
excited comments. In the evening, however, they agreed with their friend
the sergeant, who was going into the town with three or four of his
comrades, that they should accompany them, not, however, walking actually
with them, but following a few paces behind, so as to be within reach of
their assistance should any one molest them.

They reached the Piazza del Sol, the great central square of Madrid,
without incident, and amused themselves with the sight of the constant
stream of people passing to and fro, the ladies in their graceful black
mantillas, the men in cloaks and Spanish sombreros, or round felt hats.
Presently the sergeant and his companions left the square, and turning
down one of the narrow streets which run into it, amused themselves by
looking into the shops, with their gay fans, bright handkerchiefs, and
other articles of Spanish manufacture.

Tom and Peter followed their example, keeping some ten paces behind them.
It was now nearly dark, and the streets were but badly lighted except by
the lamps in the shop windows.

"It may be all fancy, Tom," Peter said, "but I can't help thinking that we
are followed. There are three follows who have passed us twice, and I am
pretty sure they are particularly noticing us. Keep your hand on your
pistol."

As the boys paused at another shop window, the three men again approached,
this time from ahead.

"Look out, Tom," Peter said sharply.

As the men came up to them, one of them exclaimed,

"Now!"

The boys faced round, pistol in hand, with a cry to their friends, just as
the three Spaniards, with drawn knives, were upon them.

The sudden movement disconcerted them, and two sprang back from the
leveled tubes of the pistols, with fierce oaths of surprise, the third,
however, rushed in and struck at Tom; the latter instinctively moved
aside, and the knife inflicted a heavy gash on the shoulder, and almost at
the same moment Peter's bullet crashed through the fellow's skull.

His comrades, with a cry of rage, rushed in, but before they could strike,
the sergeant was up and ran one through the body with his sword, whereon
the other fled. The whole affair lasted only three or four seconds. In
less than a minute the street was absolutely deserted, for rows and fights
were so common between the soldiers and the people, that all prudent
people got out of the way the moment a knife was drawn.

"Well done, lad," the sergeant said to Peter, "I thought your brother was
done for. Luckily I had faced your way when the fellow attacked you, and
was on my way to help you before they began, but I feared I should be too
late. That was a wonderfully pretty snap shot of yours, and you were as
cool as old hands. Peste! I don't know what to make of you boys. Now come
along, we had better get away from this carrion before any one comes up
and asks questions. First, though, let me tie up your shoulder."

This was soon done, and while the sergeant was engaged upon it, his
comrades, old soldiers, turned over the dead Spaniards, searched their
pockets, and chuckled as they found several gold pieces.

One or two French soldiers alone came near them before they left the spot,
attracted by the sound of the pistol. A word from the sergeant, "These
scoundrels attacked us, they have got their coup," satisfied them,
and the boys and their friend soon regained the crowded main street,
leaving the bodies for the watch to find and bury.

Arrived at the barracks, Tom's arm was examined by the surgeon, and the
cut pronounced a deep flesh wound, but of no consequence; it was soon
strapped up, and with his arm in a sling Tom went down to the sergeant's
quarters, where they slept. Here they had to go through much patting on
the back, for their friend had described the readiness and coolness with
which they stood at bay, and popular as they were before they were now
more so than ever. For the rest of their stay in Madrid the boys did not
stir out of barracks. One at least of Nunez's envoys they knew to be
alive, and he could enlist any number of the lower class against them, so
they resolved not to go out until they should finally start.

After a fortnight's stay they were sent for to the colonel's quarters,
where they found Madame Reynier and her child. "I had a letter from my
husband this morning," she said, "from his camp near Cordova, thanking you
with all his heart for the inestimable service you rendered him, and
begging me to tell you that you can count on his gratitude to the extent
of his life at any and all times. You need no assurance of mine. And now
about your journey. All is prepared for you to leave to-morrow morning.
You are to come here to the colonel's quarters soon after daybreak. Here
are your two disguises, for the one as a young bachelor of medicine, for
the other as a young novice. Here is your pass, signed by the minister,
authorizing you both to pass on to your relations at Ciudad Rodrigo, and
to go unmolested thence where you choose, also recommending you to the
care of all French and Spanish authorities. A regiment marches to-morrow
morning for the frontier; the colonel is a cousin of my husband. I have
told him that some friends of yours rendered me much kindness and service
on my way down, and that I particularly commend you to his care. He has
promised to allow you to follow the regiment, and to see that you get
quarters at each halting-place. He does not know you for anything but what
you appear to be. When you have put on these dresses to-morrow morning,
step out by the private door from these quarters, looking carefully when
you start to see that there is no one in the street. Then go boldly to No.
15, Rue St. Geronimo; go into the courtyard, there you will see two stout
mules with all necessaries, under charge of a soldier, who will have
instructions to hand them over to you without asking any questions; then
go down to the Retiro and wait till the 16th come along. The Colonel will
be on the look-out for you, and you will ride up to him and hand him this
note. And now farewell, dear boys; never shall I forget you, or cease to
pray for you, and may be when this terrible war is over we may meet as
friends again. Keep these little tokens of remembrance of your grateful
friends." So saying, Madame Reynier pressed into the boys' hands two
magnificent gold watches and chains, held her child up for each of them to
kiss, threw her arms round their necks and kissed them herself, and then
drawing down her veil to conceal the tears which were standing in her
eyes, left them hastily.

That night the boys said good-by to their friend the sergeant, and to
those soldiers with whom they had most companionship. "You have guessed,
no doubt, sergeant," Tom said, in his mixture of Spanish and French, "that
we are not exactly what we seem to be, but if we should ever meet again,
under different circumstances, I want you to remember that our connection
with the regiment has been in a way forced upon us. I should not like you
to think, that is that under the pretence of friendship, we have been
treacherously learning things. Do you understand?"

"I understand, mes braves," the sergeant said, "Jacques Pinteau is no
fool, and he saw from the first that you were not two ragged Spanish
peasant boys by birth. I daresay I can guess what you are, but there need
be no ill-will for that, and as you only came among us by accident, as it
were, there is no more to be said either way. There is one thing certain,
wherever or however we meet, we shall be friends."

So well were Madame Reynier's plans arranged that the boys passed from
Madrid to the frontier without a single hitch or unpleasantness. Tom was
soberly attired as a student at the university, Peter was muffled up to
the eyes as a timid young novice, going from school to enter a convent, of
which his aunt was lady superior, at Ciudad Rodrigo. The colonel, and,
following his example, the officers of the regiment were polite and civil.
The marches were of easy length, the mules stout and smooth-going, with
well-filled traveling sacks. The weather was delightful, and the boys
enjoyed the fortnight's march exceedingly. Upon the road they learned that
Massena had laid siege to Ciudad Rodrigo, and that the 16th was on its way
to join the besieging army.

It was the end of June, 1810, when the 16th joined Massena's force before
Ciudad Rodrigo. The siege had continued for some time, the British light
division, under General Craufurd, lay upon the other side of the river
Agueda, which separated them alike from the town and the French army. The
colonel of the 16th politely expressed to Tom his regret that he could
not, for the present, conduct them to their final destination, but that he
hoped that the gate would soon be open for them. Tom thanked him for the
civility which he had shown them upon the road, and said that he would,
with his sister, take up his abode for the present a few miles from the
beleaguered fortress. On leaving the regiment the boys went higher up the
Agueda to the little town of Villar, where there was a bridge. This
however, was watched by the troops of both armies, and there was, at
present, no chance of affecting a passage.

CHAPTER XI. — THE FIGHT ON THE COA.

All through the winter of 1809-1810, Wellington had remained quietly on
the frontier of Portugal, engaged in disciplining his troops, many of whom
were raw drafts from the militia, in urging upon the home Government the
necessity of fresh reinforcements, if the war was to be carried on with
the smallest hopes of success, and in controversies and disputes with the
Portuguese regency. This body of incapables starved their own army,
refused supplies and transport to the British, and behaved with such
arrogance and insolence that Wellington was several times driven to use
the threat that, unless measures were taken to keep the Portuguese troops
from starving, and to supply food to the British, he would put his army on
board the transports at Lisbon, and give up the struggle altogether.

Spring found the army still on the frontier, and when the French advanced
in force in May to lay siege to the Spanish frontier fortress of Ciudad
Rodrigo, Wellington to the intense disappointment of his own troops, and
the bitter anger of the Portuguese and Spaniards, refused to fight a
battle to save the fortress, which, under its gallant old governor, Andrea
Hernati, was defending itself nobly.

Wellington's position was, however, a very difficult one, and his
responsibilities were immense. Allowing for the detachments which were
massing to check three other French columns advancing in different
directions, he had but 25,000 men with which to attempt to raise the siege
of Ciudad Rodrigo, or to draw off the besieged garrison. Massena had under
him 60,000 French veterans, and was desiring nothing more than that
Wellington should attack him. The chances of victory then were by no means
strong, and in any case victory could only have been purchased by a loss
of men which would have completely crippled the British general, and would
have rendered it absolutely necessary for him to fall back again at once.
A defeat or even a heavy loss of men, would have so dispirited the
faint-hearted Government at home that they would undoubtedly have recalled
the whole expedition, and resigned Portugal to its fate. Thus Wellington
decided not to risk the whole fate of the British army and of Portugal for
merely a temporary advantage, and so stood firm against the murmurs of his
own troops, the furious reproaches of the Portuguese and Spaniards, and
the moving entreaties for aid of the gallant governor of the besieged
town.

At the same time that he refused to risk a general battle, he kept
Craufurd's division in advance of the Coa, and within two hours' march of
the enemy, thereby encouraging the garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo, and
preventing Massena from pushing forward a portion of his army while the
rest pursued the siege.

Craufurd's front was guarded by the Agueda, a river only passable by two
or three bridges and fords in wet weather, but fordable in many places in
the dry season. At the commencement of June the Agueda fell, and the
French crossed in strength at various places. Craufurd, however, still
maintained his position in front of the Coa with great skill and boldness.
He had under his command only 4000 infantry, 1100 cavalry, and six guns,
and his maintenance of his position, almost within gun-shot of an enemy's
army, 60,000 strong, for three months, is one of the finest feats of
military audacity and ability ever performed.

Until the 11th of July the boys remained quietly at a cottage occupied by
peasants, who believed their story that they were only waiting to proceed
when the French army advanced. They were freed from molestation or inquiry
upon the part of the French by the pass with which Madame Reynier had
supplied them.

Upon that day Ciudad Rodrigo surrendered, and Massena prepared at once to
enter Portugal. Upon the 21st the cavalry advanced in great force, and
upon the following day the boys resolved upon endeavoring to rejoin the
British army. The Agueda was now easily fordable in many places, but the
boys determined to swim across, at a distance from the point at which the
French army was now pouring forward.

As evening came on they left the cottage, and walked two miles up the
stream, and, as soon as night fell, took off the costumes which had proved
of such service to them and left them on the bank; then fastening their
peasants' suits upon two bundles of rushes to keep them dry, entered the
little river, and were soon upon the opposite shore. They knew, from what
they had heard in the afternoon, that Craufurd had fallen back upon
Almeida, a fortified town, and that it was probable he would at once cross
the Coa, as resistance to the force now approaching him seemed nothing
short of madness.

No good, indeed, could be gained by a fight in such a position, with a
deep river in the rear, crossed by only a narrow bridge, and commanded by
both banks, and Wellington's orders had been imperative "that, upon no
account whatever was Craufurd to fight beyond the Coa."

Craufurd, however, a rash and obstinate, although a skilful general, was
determined upon having a brush with the enemy before he fell back. He
anticipated, no doubt, that only an advanced guard of the enemy would come
up at first, and his intention was to inflict a severe check upon them
with the magnificent little division under his command, and then fall back
triumphantly across the Coa. Massena, however, was well aware of the
fighting powers of the light division, and was preparing to hurl suddenly
upon him a force more than sufficient to crush it.

The Scudamores had but little fear of meeting with any large body of the
enemy, as the main French advance was direct from Ciudad Rodrigo; their
cavalry would, however, be scattered all over the country, and were they
to fall into the hands of any of these parties they would have been shot
instantly, upon suspicion of endeavoring to convey news of the French
movements to Craufurd.

The point where they crossed the river was between Villar and Naves Frias,
and, after an hour's walking, they struck the little rivulet called Duas
Casas. This they crossed at once, as they knew that by following its
southern bank until they saw some high ground to their left they would
find themselves near Almeida, which they hoped to reach before the English
retreated.

All night they tramped through the fields of stubble, where the corn had
been long since cut for the use of Craufurd's cavalry, but walking at
night through an unknown country is slow work, and when day began to break
they entered a small wood just beyond the point where the Turones, as the
southern arm of the Duas Casas is called, branches off from the main
stream. Several times in the course of the day bodies of the enemy's
cavalry came near their place of concealment, and the Scudamores
congratulated themselves that they had not given way to their impatience,
and tried to push on across the twenty miles that alone separated them
from their friends.

At nightfall the wind rose, and a heavy rain began to fall. They had no
stars by which to steer their course, and were, therefore, forced to
follow the bank of the Turones, although they knew that it would lead them
some distance to the north of Almeida. It was slow work, indeed, for they
had to grope their way along in the storm, following every turn and bend
of the river, which formed their only guide. After several hours' toil
they came into a road running north and south. This they knew was the road
leading from Guarda to Almeida, and it gave them a clue as to the distance
they had come. Still following the river, they continued their course
until they approached San Pedro, whence they knew that a road ran directly
to the British position in front of Almeida, that is if the British still
maintained their position there.

As they approached the village, they heard a deep, hollow sound, and
stopping to listen, and laying their ears to the ground, could distinguish
the rumble of heavy carriages.

"The French are advancing in force, Peter; we are just in time; they are
going to attack us in the morning at daybreak. We know the direction now;
let us turn to the left, and try to get on in advance of them. They
probably will not push on much farther until there is light enough to
permit them to form order of battle; they are evidently, by the sound,
going to the left, rather than straight on."